Beyond This Place of Wrath and Tears
by Talriga
Summary: Some burdens cannot be left alone. And memories can taunt a wizard for the rest of his life. Severus Snape, however, is not a man who accepts defeat. Time travel, AU 6th and 7th year. Ch. 24: ... and the storm breaks over Azkaban.
1. Chapter 1

**Title:** Beyond This Place of Wrath and Tears  
**Author:** Talriga  
**Summary: **Some burdens cannot be left alone. And memories can taunt a wizard for the rest of his life. Severus Snape, however, is not a man who accepts defeat. Time travel, AU 6th and 7th year.  
**Category/Ships:** Drama, general, angst. Gen.  
**Disclaimer:** This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.  
**Author's Note:** The title is from the poem "Invictus," by William Ernest Henley. Enjoy!

**Chapter 1**

Severus Snape had never been particularly enamored of social gatherings. Perhaps he easily adapted to them as such, but his preference was to sit down with a bulky potions manuscript and read it thoroughly.

He was listening to some nameless idiot jabber on about the recent burglary at the Ministry—or what had once been called the Ministry. The term now used was the Purity Bureau. Personally, Severus thought it showed an appalling lack of imagination, but he never said so. Half his mind at present was occupied with noting what the idiot said—just in case something might be important—while the other half was engaged in checking and reinforcing his Occlumency shields, pulling out choice bits of memories to push outside, all of which were evidently snippets of loyal obedience to the Dark Lord.

"Professor, sir!" Severus's face did not change one whit when he heard the term by which he had once been addressed—despite all the bitter memories it brought, he had buried his facial emotions long ago, and his tears had never fallen.

He turned to see Draco Malfoy cutting his way through the mass of trailing robes. He looked somewhat more weary of late, but then perhaps that was because he had drawn Azkaban duty for a week. Just because the Dementors deigned to do as the Dark Lord ordered did not mean they did not mind floating perilously close to Death Eaters, trying to feed upon any happy memories. His face had none of the chiseled, cold, aristocratic and aloof countenance of which his father was to have said to have used to intimidate new Death Eater recruits. Instead, it was a soft, tired face, cheekbones slanting up to light grey eyes, pointed nose and a pointed chin. The light provided by the floating, glowing candles glinted off his silver Sickle of a thatch of straight hair.

"Draco." Severus recognised his former Hogwarts student with a curt nod. "What is it?"

The Malfoy scion sketched a hasty half-bow. Doubtless it rankled on him to perform the gesture for higher-ranking Death Eaters, but Severus was the rare exception. Draco had never forgotten how Severus had saved his mission by killing Albus Dumbledore when he had lost his nerve. The Dark Lord had been angry at Draco's failure, of course, but his glee at hearing of the Hogwarts Headmaster's death had surpassed it.

_Draco_, thought Severus as he surveyed the boy, _do you know how you destroyed my life in that moment, when you faltered and I arrived_?

"Professor Snape," Draco began—Severus bit down an undercurrent of irritation; he wasn't a professor anymore—"I was wondering if you could help me with something."

Severus nodded silently. Draco, even after all this time, was still uncomfortable with Severus's reticence. At Hogwarts, their relationship had been that of teacher and student; even now, Severus was one of the highest ranking Death Eaters, while Draco, for all his father's efforts, was still in the middle.

"The Dark Lord assigned me a post at Hogwarts," Draco said finally. "My duty will be to check the entire school. Since you were a professor there, I assume you know the entire layout."

"Yes, I do." _More than you know_, Severus thought silently to himself. _More than anyone else will ever know_. He fought the temptation to close his eyes and feel, in the back of his mind, for his mental connection to the broken-down castle, which he had created before he had had to leave years ago—the connection which kept him sane in an insane, mad world. All the magic in Hogwarts, over the centuries, had contributed to make the castle sentient. And now Hogwarts responded with a plaintive, _I want you here. You never come here. Can't I see you again_? There was a sad, longing tone to her words; she wanted her children back. _My last child_.

"And, er, if you have any free time…"

Severus did have plenty of free time. Too much time, for his liking. He said, "I will come with you, if that is what you want."

Draco gave him a vague smile. "Thank you, Professor."

But Severus's thoughts no longer concentrated on Draco; instead, they hovered around the existence of a certain object that was hidden in his rooms. He turned and refilled his goblet of wine. As he sipped at the sherry, he thought, _Yes. I will do it there. To redo what I did, to stop the world from rumbling toward its ruin_.

_It is only fitting, after all, that it should be done in the place where I killed my mentor, my only friend_.

**oOo**

Severus hadn't visited Hogwarts even once after the fateful night so many years ago. He preferred not to see what Hogwarts had become, reduced to a vestige of its former, beautiful glory. He had not even been at the attack and siege; he had pled sick and stayed back, doing research, trying to keep his mind away from what the Dark Lord's forces could be doing to the stronghold.

A terrible lot, as it turned out. From conversation and reports, Severus found out what had happened anyway. First there had been the giants, lumbering with a mighty, heavy walk toward the castle, disregarding the defenders' spells as the flashes of light bounced fruitlessly off their thick skin. Tearing out trees and flinging them against Hogwarts's walls, brick crumbling to the ground. Dementors, ghosting silently over the grounds and having a hearty feast of souls, their skeletal hands reaching out, vile and rotting and freezing. Leaving a trail of no longer self-conscious bodies in their wake. Inferi, blank faces staring, their grotesque bodies stumbling about and overwhelming with their vacant look of death. Fenrir Greyback and his werewolf renegades, slashing at throats and sharp teeth biting without abandon, the stench of blood in the air. By the time the Dark Lord came into view, Harry Potter must have been a tired, broken, war-weary boy.

Albus had often told Severus that Harry Potter had the "power the Dark Lord knows not," but in the end, Severus knew, Potter didn't have enough of it. The Dark Lord had more hatred for Potter than Potter had love for the world—because he had no-one left to love; he was all alone. He died gracelessly, his young face solemn and grave, lit up by the green light of Avada Kedavra.

Severus didn't blame him for not triumphing. Perhaps he was more happy dead. His friends were gone, ruthlessly picked off one by one, the Ministry collapsing, the Burrow razed to the ground and utterly annihilated. Longbottom refusing to give way and tell secrets, tortured into insanity like his parents; Lovegood, dying from an asphyxiation spell; Granger, who burned to death, while still alive and conscious; the two Weasleys, taking Killing Curses in protecting Potter. Pettigrew killed Lupin, performing the last act of treachery against his old friends, because when Lupin died, his old friends were all gone. Minerva was dead; Hogwarts was fallen. He blamed Albus instead, because he thought, sometimes, that it was because of Albus's death that everything had gone downhill.

Then he would remember who had killed the old wizard, and there was only ever himself to blame for that.

He turned his head slightly now, looking at Draco and listening. Draco was talking, desperately trying to fill in the empty silence with some resemblance of conversation. He felt the void too, Severus knew; even if he couldn't name it, he could feel it, and knew that something—something intangible, something ethereal and ephemeral and beautiful had died along with the Light. Their hopes, their dreams, their destinies.

_Fate has always been cruel_, Severus thought. _I am worse—I defy Fate. I will be the shaper this time around, I alone_.

"And did you hear about the raid at the Bureau, Professor Snape?"

Severus pulled his thoughts back to the present; replied, "Yes, I did. Not much else, though. What did you hear?"

Draco shrugged. "My father told me that someone broke into the Mysteries Department. Augustus Rookwood was raging mad—he says that everything on the entire floor was smashed to pieces, everything! The time room, the death room, the hall of prophecies—everything destroyed. Whoever did it was aiming for maximum destruction."

_Maximum destruction, yes, and petty anger. It won't matter anymore, Draco, not in an hour, if I have my way_. But Severus simply said, "Do you know what the attacker was trying to accomplish?"

"Not really," Draco admitted. "I suppose it could be those resistance fighters, but they're so scattered and so demoralised that it couldn't be them. It's rather hazy—I don't think there was any specific objective in mind, just to cause havoc and mayhem. Just between you and me, professor," he lowered his voice, "I think whoever did it must have been brilliant, to be able to get past all the wards and do so much."

Severus hid a smile, half amused and half ironic. _Brilliant indeed_… "Just between you and me," he replied. "We're almost at Hogwarts now."

"Thanks for coming, anyway."

"I have all the time in the world, Draco. It was no matter."

Draco kicked at a pebble, scuffing his shiny black boots. They turned the corner. The ruin of Hogwarts rose before their eyes, and Severus felt a slight chill. Once upon a time, the castle had been awe-inspiring. Now it was a mere shadow of its existence. The Gryffindor and Ravenclaw towers were long since destroyed; the lake was dirty and muddy, and the remains of the giant squid still lay in the water. What had been called the Quidditch pitch was no longer recognisably a Quidditch pitch—the stands were in shambles, and the grass was brown and dry. _How could they have done this to you_?

_Because I am Hogwarts_, came the mournful reply, _and I rejected Voldemort. Because Albus Dumbledore loved me, just as you do_.

One of the sentries flanked them on the left, cold blue eyes harsh and unforgiving as he scrutinised them closely. "What's your assignment?" he growled out, and Severus was inexplicably reminded of Mad-Eye Moody—Moody, who had always had suspicions of Severus (and to the old Auror, they had been justified); who had taken eight Death Eaters down before he was killed by Antonin Dolohov; whose last roar of defiance had been, "Constant vigilance!" (Now, if anyone so much as whispered the phrase, they were incarcerated, charged with sedition toward the government. More often, they were promised torture, and often death—the term was intolerable to Death Eaters.)

Draco reached into the pocket of his robes and withdrew a slip of paper. "Signed by Department Head Castleton," he said. "Another sweep of Hogwarts."

"Again?" snorted the sentry with derision. "There's nothing to find there, it's dead."

_Not dead_, thought Severus. _Not quite yet_.

The sentry had a rather annoyed look on his face, but he checked the slip and nodded. "Cleared," he said curtly. As though to make up for his lack of insults, he added, "I don't see why they have to do it over and over again, it's all gone."

Severus's lips thinned. "Obviously," he said acidly, "you have also forgotten that Albus Dumbledore lived here for more than four decades, and cursory looks at the castle will not uncover what he left behind."

The hostile look on the sentry's face vanished as he looked more closely at Severus, noting the black hair, the aquiline nose, the burning dark eyes. "Oh! Why, you're Professor Snape, the one who killed him, weren't you?"

_My chief claim to fame, and infamy_. "Yes," Severus said softly, ominously. "What's your name?"

"McGinty, sir," the sentry said now, looking at Severus with an odd glint which Severus realised, with a faint bit of shock, was awe at his accomplishment. "What was it like, killing him? It must have been a huge battle."

Severus cursed the unknown deity who allowed stories, inevitably, to spin out of control, taking on unrealistic aspects. Or perhaps it was simply pub gossip. Curse that, anyway. What a sorry story it would be anyway, if the murder of Albus Dumbledore was simply casting the Killing Curse at a tired old man who had drunk a wasting potion by the gobletful to retrieve a fake Horcrux? All the elements of tragedy.

He said, "It was curiously short." Beside him, Draco's face was stony, unreadable.

"Well…" The sentry held out a hand. "Job well done, then, sir."

Severus did not take the hand; instead, he nodded and said, a bitter smile curling around his lips, "Yes, it was a job well done. And now we have another job to do. Good day, McGinty." He swept past him, Draco trailing in his wake.

"Idiot," Draco said succinctly once they were out of earshot.

"Everyone was an idiot in their life sometime," Severus said. "It just takes a while to figure out when." Realising that this was potentially incriminating, he added, "Looking at that man, he never will."

Draco snorted and hurried to catch up with him, his legs moving fast to match Severus's long, smooth pace, well-practised from years of striding effortlessly down corridors in search of wayward students. Severus looked at Draco out of the corner of his eye, asking, "Where do you want to search?"

His old student pulled out a map of Hogwarts. "I was thinking I could take the lower levels, Professor, since I'm most familiar with those. You take the higher levels, sir—you were a professor, so you would know your way around the towers."

"And the Headmaster's office?"

Draco shook his head. "We can't get past—McGonagall must have put an insane number of wards on the office."

"Let me try. I was once a professor, at any rate."

"All right. Shall we meet back in the Great Hall?"

"Agreed."

They parted ways, Draco heading toward the dungeons. Severus stood there for a moment longer, looking after him and his hunched way of walking, of weariness—and then, in a leisurely manner, made his way to the familiar stone gargoyle guarding the office—Albus's office. He passed his eyes over the craggy face, the distorted glare. He didn't know the password—Minerva would not have chosen the name of a sweet for her password. So he closed his eyes instead, and reached out with his magic.

Hogwarts moved slightly, stirred, said: _What is it_?

_Let me into the office. Please_.

The gargoyle twisted its neck to look up at him; then it slowly nodded, and shuffled over to the side, revealing the entrance. _Of course I will_, Hogwarts replied. _Albus said it would always be open to you. You can come in_.

Severus inclined his head in acknowledgement, and stepped over the threshold. There was the faint restriction of wards for a moment, trying to prevent a marked Death Eater from entering the office, before the castle pulled them back, letting him enter the office.

The office had suffered none of the destruction the rest of Hogwarts had encountered. It looked as severe and plain as Minerva had always been, the books lined up neatly on bookshelves, the administrative paperwork stacked on the desk. But then Severus saw the small dish of sherbet lemons, and the jeweled perch of Fawkes off to the side, and knew that Minerva had missed Albus just as much as he had.

He looked up at the walls. All the portraits were gone.

The Sorting Hat, atop one of the tables, stirred slightly. "Severus Snape?" it said tiredly. "So you've come."

"I have." Severus sat in one of the straight-backed armchairs and reached for the Hat, setting it on his head. "I haven't spoken to you in a long time."

"Indeed." The Hat sounded somewhat wistful. "Why are you here?"

Severus stayed silent, allowing the Sorting Hat to flit about his mind. It bent its ragged, dusty tip over his head, saying, "You would go so far as to do that, Severus?"

"Why not?" Severus picked up one of the sherbet lemons, unwrapped it, and put it in his mouth. The tangy sensation tingled in his mouth. "The resistance is broken. Albus is dead. If I must live on in this type of world…"

"Everyone's mad, in a way," the Sorting Hat replied. "You more than most."

"So I am. Mad enough to try this." He reached into his robes and pulled out a small object. The sunlight, filtering through the windows and the swirling dust motes, struck it with a small golden gleam. It was a small, golden hourglass, with the fine white sand settling securely in the bottom. It was the Time-Turner that he had stolen from the Department of Mysteries, while destroying everything else.

"You don't even know if it will work," the Sorting Hat said. "It's only theoretical, Severus, it may not work."

"If it works, so much for the better. If it doesn't—I'll be where Albus is, and maybe I can see him again."

The Sorting Hat was silent. "If it does work," the Hat finally whispered, "when you go back—see me. Speak to me. I can help you with your work."

"Thank you." Severus took off the Sorting Hat and set it on the desk. It was bedraggled, bent with the ages and the loss of Hogwarts. "I will. I promise."

The rim of the Hat opened along the seams in a final smile.

Severus held up the glittering hourglass, and began to turn it.

**oOo**

The idea had first come into his mind nearly half a year ago, when Augustus Rookwood had been chatting with him at another one of the social functions which the Dark Lord held to reward his loyal followers. Not so loyal, in Severus's case. He lingered near the open doors, letting the cold draft of air pass soothingly across his skin, half wondering if he should leave early and go back to his rooms to read. Then Augustus Rookwood came up to him, face relaxed with drink. "Severus," he said, "stop looking so grumpy. Port?"

"No thank you," Severus said shortly. He pulled out a cigarette packed with magical tobacco. Smoking was a habit he had only recently picked up, and it often made him calm down, or at least not think about anything, which was a much better state of being than the usual everyday existence. He lit the tip and put the cigarette between his lips. "You seem rather happy, Augustus," he remarked as he blew out some smoke.

"Oh, yes." Rookwood did look rather happy—or perhaps that was the side-effect of being pleasantly drunk. "I finally finished cataloguing everything from the Department of Mysteries."

"Really? How was it?" asked Severus, in the tone of voice which seemed to imply that 'I'm not interested at all, but I'll be polite and listen.' Rookwood, being a former Unspeakable, had been given jurisdiction over the Department of Mysteries. Severus, on the other hand, ran the research section of the ministry.

"A nightmare, at first," Rookwood grumbled, his face momentarily darkening with annoyance. "You'd think those young novices would know a little about being careful, but they bungle everything. I had to go so far as to put wards around the Veil room so they wouldn't accidentally stumble through and leave us less an idiot."

"Perhaps that would be better for us, all things considered," Severus remarked dryly.

"So you say," Rookwood stared down into the blood-red depths of his goblet of wine. "Merlin. They didn't even know the difference between an hourglass and a Time-Turner. Lalken nearly spun himself out of existence."

"And how did he almost achieve that dubious honour?" Severus suppressed the urge to make any further scathing comments about the declining intelligence of people in general.

"Well. An hourglass is an hourglass, of course. You know that. But you turn a Time-Turner one too many times, and the body disintegrates."

Severus raised an eyebrow. "Merlin forbid."

"Oh, it happens." Rookwood absent-mindedly traced the gilded rim of his wineglass with his right forefinger, making a irritating, squeaking sound. "You see, if you go too far back into the past, your body can't support itself over that huge period of time. You die."

"Are you sure?"

Rookwood made a sound that suspiciously sounded like a snort; except that Rookwoods did not snort, they sneered. Or so Augustus Rookwood always said. "The souls may still stick around, except without a physical grounding, so they'd still expire after a while. And no-one's about to go on a suicide mission, of course."

Severus refrained from pointing out that the Dark Lord, in moments of rare misjudgement, often sent people on suicide missions too. Instead, he twisted his mouth into his trademark smirk. "Maybe we could use the Time-Turners to let the recruits have more time for training. Or gain some more common sense."

Rookwood laughed; said, "I wish so. Oh, I think Lucius wants to speak to me. Probably going to carp about all the money he's lost. Doesn't say that to the Dark Lord, of course, but nothing like a Malfoy ranting. Besides a dead Mudblood, obviously." He lifted his goblet in a rather inebriated fashion, like a cheerful bacchanal, before moving off, the whiff of wine trailing behind him.

Severus, feeling a tad bit malicious, decided not to point out that Rookwood had a tear in the back of his robes. He'd find out, anyway, once he looked in the mirror and turned around—and perhaps did a few pirouettes to boot. Just because they were fellow Death Eaters didn't mean he had to be the Good Samaritan. No need to mention that Rookwood was making a regular fool of himself. In fact, Severus rather enjoyed the spectacle.

It was only later that evening when Severus was idly flipping through a pamphlet on the space-time continuum that Time-Turners finally caught his attention, and planted an outrageous thought in his mind. And he began to plan.

It was a easy task, to break into the Department of Mysteries. Beside the nice benefit of lifting the normally irascible Augustus Rookwood to new heights of fury and fire-spitting anger, it was the only place where Time-Turners were kept.

Severus didn't really care about the benefit anymore. All he wanted was for it to work.

**oOo**

The hourglass turned: up, down, up, down, the white sand flung mindlessly against the clear curved glass…

**oOo**

"Mr Malfoy, I expect you to have the situation under control, do you understand?"

"Yes, Professor Snape," Draco said. Behind the blond Slytherin, Longbottom and the Weasleys both looked at Severus in faint outrage. Lovegood simply looked, and said nothing. Severus turned on his heel and strode off, his mind running quickly over what he had to do. _Potter and Granger are off with Umbridge, the Order will have to find them… why the hell does this always come back to Potter's antics_?

A heavy scowl spread over his face even as he walked. "Stupid Potter," he muttered to himself. He had to get to his rooms first, and then he could speak to Albus through the two-way mirror he had in his pocket. As he passed the headmaster's office, he glanced briefly at the motionless stone gargoyle standing in silent sentinel at the entrance. He did it all the time, to check if the office was secure. There was no indication that this time would be any different.

It was his Occlumency shields that felt it first. A faint prickling at the edges of his shields, molded and shaped like pools of quicksilver…

Severus let out a barely concealed gasp as his shields strained and buckled under some unknown strain. He reinforced them to full strength, but to his sudden shock, the attacker seemed to slip through them easily—as though his shields did not seem to matter. He stumbled toward the wall and leaned against it, breathing heavily. He tried to lift a hand to the wall, trying to push himself upright.

Severus's mind froze in shock as his body suddenly straightened and changed directions. And he was suddenly aware of the fact that he hadn't wanted to do that. _Who are you_? he roared in his mind. _Get—out_!

_I'm sorry_, came the reply, edged with dark amusement. _But I need to do something important, and even Hogwarts agrees with me_. He turned sharply around a corner.

_Hogwarts_?

_Mm. She is sentient, after all. Now, I have a job to do, about the Order_.

Severus was wary now, even as he was shuttled into the corner of his mind. _Are you a Death Eater_?

Something similar to that of a bitter laugh reverberated through him. _Don't worry, I won't harm the Order. In fact, I'm off to find Potter. They're in the Forbidden Forest right now, you know_. He had by now slipped outside. _Unfortunately, the centaurs aren't particularly welcome to them_.

_How do you know this_? Severus asked. He thought it best not to antagonise the presence, whoever it was. It had the upper hand, after all.

_I'm quite willing to talk to you later_. He had reached the edge of the Forbidden Forest, and the Other, without a hint of hesitation, directed him to plunge into the underbrush.

_You'd better have a good explanation_, Severus grumbled.

_Oh_. The Other suddenly sounded tired. _Yes, I do_. The control over his body, however, only tightened further. Severus struggled, and found himself bound tight by flickering tongues of black flame. _Now shut up_. The Other was getting annoyed.

Severus fell silent, and tuned his senses. Faintly, he heard some odd commotion going on. _A little to the right, I think_, said the Other lightly.

_Are you mad? Rushing into a group of centaurs_?

_I think sometimes I am mad_, replied the Other. _I told you to be quiet_.

He stepped out into the clearing. Centaurs of all colors and physiques were gathered menacingly around a pitiful-looking Umbridge. Off to the left, Potter and Granger huddled together, as some others surrounded them. Granger was saying something desperately, hurriedly, pleading to a dark-haired centaur. _That would be Bane. He's the headstrong one_.

Severus wondered how the Other could identify the centaurs. But now the Other was opening his mouth, saying smoothly, in an emotionless, neutral voice, "Lahir Cahadhwy, I was not aware that you were so hostile to those who would seek refuge in the forest."

All of the centaurs turned sharply toward him. Behind the screen of bodies, he saw Umbridge kneeling, trembling with fright. Potter and Granger clung to each other, staring at him in stunned surprise, although he thought he caught a flicker of relief in Granger's eyes.

It was a strongly built, brown-haired centaur that stepped forward, his skin tanned and rippling under the bright moonlight. Severus recognised that he must be the Lahir, the one who led the centaurs in the forest. Even as the others stirred slightly and stared at him, he came up to Severus and said, "You speak as though they do seek refuge. Yet the woman calls us unfit to live, and the children use us like tools to rid themselves of her."

The Other replied. But although Severus could still understand what he was saying, he was suddenly aware of a slight shifting in the air, in the vowels, in the vocal chords flexing and relaxing. Severus nearly started in shock. It was the centaur language, the language that they almost never used around humans. And the Other knew it, knew the fluidity and language, the words that whispered of the unknown destinies, the dancing flow of magic.

_Tools are what you say they thought_, the Other was saying to the centaur. _But did they not ask you to help them, once they were here? They asked you to help them, they gave you a choice of whether or not you could aid them_.

_But they knew we would not tolerate the woman_, Lahir Cahadhwy replied, showing no surprise at the use of the centaur language, looking steadily at him. _She would kill us all, and think nothing of it. You think we would have let them go? There was no choice—our decision was already made. They exploited it; they are foals, to be sure, but they manipulated us all the same_.

_And they will learn, Lahir_, said the Other. _Can you blame them? They did not know that you would see it that way—most wizards know nothing of centaurs. All they knew was that the woman was loathsome, and that the centaurs would know it too, and that they must get away from her, if they were to rescue someone in danger_.

The centaur paused and scrutinised Severus so closely that he felt as though his soul was being laid open and carefully sliced into slivers. _You are not like the rest_, he said. _You are different_.

_I am_, the Other said. And Severus felt an sense of grief and pain overwhelm him. When he stirred again, recovering from the emotions, the Other was saying, _They want to rescue the man who is like a father to the boy. They think he may die. And the woman would not let them go_.

Lahir Cahadhwy said, _But the man would not die. You know what will happen. Tell me_!

The last two words rang like a bell in Severus's mind. The Other said, _You want to know? Let me show you, as one equal to another_.

_Very well_, said Cahadhwy. _I knew you would come. We saw your return in the stars_.

Severus felt the Other say, _But only my return. This is what will happen, or what had happened before_.

He held his left hand, clenched into a fist, loosely at his side. Then slowly, languidly, he opened his hand and moved it around him in a circle. A solid sheet of blazing, blinding white fire streamed from his palm and sprang up around the two of them, the man and the centaur. Severus's eyes were dazzled by the white glare, and he wondered how the Other had done that.

_You might want to see this too_, the Other said to Severus.

And Severus gave a sort of shudder when he saw the broken body of Albus Dumbledore lying motionless on the ground. Then that image was gone just as suddenly as it had come, and Severus was seeing Longbottom scream in agony, Granger burn in fire, Potter collapse to the ground. Last came the lingering picture of the ruins of Hogwarts. The Forbidden Forest was hacked and distorted, destroyed. Only the lingering remnants of shrubbery remained.

Severus saw only Albus's bright blue eyes. His voice was tight as he said, _What is it_?

_It is the future as I lived it_, the Other said to Lahir Cahadhwy, answering Severus's question as well. _Would you let that happen to your forest? The Dark Lord Voldemort has no love for centaurs_.

_Neither does the Ministry_, Cahadhwy said. But even he looked somewhat shaken by the pictures. The white flames danced around them, flickering and moving in their own silent waltz.

_But some against the Dark Lord do_, replied the Other. _With the Dark Lord, he will not care at all_.

_You're from the future_, Severus said. It was a statement, because he knew it already.

_Yes, I am. I was Potions Professor Severus Snape, once. As you are now_. The Other was weary. _Later_.

_All right_. Severus could wait for the Other to manage the present in order to prevent the future. When the future had Albus dead.

Lahir Cahadhwy stepped forward, close to him. He said, _You speak truth, Severus Snape. Brave in heart, sharp in mind, far-reaching in ambition, and loyal to your principles. I agree to let them go. You will visit again_.

_I can agree to that_, said the Other. _May the stars shine down upon you in favour_.

_May they do the same for you, Severus Snape_, replied Cahadhwy. _You are a worthy person_. The white flames died down around them, leaving a charred black circle in the grass. Lahir Cahadhwy stepped away, not turning around and still facing him. It was a mark of respect. So Severus—the Other—knelt, and bowed his head. When he looked up again, the centaurs were leaving, their hooves making soft noises against the dirt, their tails swishing slightly like the rustling of leaves. He stood. The Other—his future self—said, _Contact Albus. Tell him to keep Black at Grimmauld Place, no matter what. I'll speak to you when all is over_.

_I can do that_.

The Other gave the mental equivalent of a tired smile, and retreated to the corners of Severus's mind.

Potter and Granger were still staring at him. Umbridge was unconscious. "Professor Snape?" Granger said softly. "Are—are you all right?"

"All right," said Severus. "Come on, Potter, Granger."

"Not yet," Potter said suddenly. "Voldemort's got Sirius at the Department of Mysteries!"

Severus narrowed his eyes at Potter. _Keep Black at Grimmauld Place—must be one of the Dark Lord's tricks_. "So you say," he said acidly, although he still saw Albus's blue eyes hovering in front of him. He pulled out the mirror from his pocket. "Albus Dumbledore," he addressed the mirror. Something twisted with sorrow in his heart. When he saw Albus's face, he tried not to show anything was wrong.

"Hallo, Severus," Albus's voice rose from the mirror's glass. "What is it?"

"Are you at headquarters?" Severus said shortly.

"Yes, I just got here a minute ago—"

"Is Black there?"

He heard Lupin faintly off in the background, answering the question with a yelled, "Sirius is up tending to Buckbeak. Kreacher injured him."

Severus paused, looked up, and arched an eyebrow at Potter, who staggered against Granger with something like relief in his green eyes.

"What's wrong, Severus?" That was Albus.

"Potter here seems to have got it into his mind that Black was captured. He was about to mount a foolhardy rescue mission to the Department of Mysteries to save him."

"The Department of Mysteries—oh."

"The Death Eaters will be there, no doubt of that," Severus said shortly. "If we catch them, that's solid proof that the Dark Lord is back. Fudge won't be able to survive under the Howlers he'll get."

"I'll mobilise the Order," Albus said.

"Don't send Black," Severus said.

"What?"

"Don't send Black, leave him there. After all that trouble we went through to keep him safe, I'd hate to have him die and break Potter's heart anyway." Severus's voice was sarcastic, but Albus recognised that Severus did mean it.

"All right, Severus. Thank you." His image faded from the mirror.

Severus shoved the mirror back into his robes; looked at the two students, Granger speaking reassurances to Potter. He walked up to them and said, "Potter. Granger. Unless you hope to get pneumonia from standing out in the night, shall we get back to Hogwarts or not?"

"Yes, Professor," Granger replied. Potter said nothing, but Severus thought that the worry lines on his face seemed to have smoothed out a little. He turned, and realised he had a pounding headache. His temples throbbed with dull, repetitive pain. He walked unsteadily to one of the nearby trees to catch his breath and massage his forehead. But it didn't help; the headache came back with a vengeance, and now there was a hazy veil of pain in front of his eyes, his knees gave way and he was kneeling, his hands in the grass, Granger saying, "Professor Snape! What's wrong?"

He blinked through the pain. "I…" He felt Granger push him back, grasping his hand, Potter running over, his voice impossibly boyish and young. _I was never that young_, thought Severus, and winced at the throbbing. Granger's voice: "Sir!"

Severus muttered, "It's nothing, it's fine…" He thought, _I need to speak to my future self and find out how Albus died_.

His world faded away to black.

**oOo**

Hermione knew that something was wrong with Snape the moment he suddenly relaxed from his tenseness. She tilted his head back and let the moonlight shine down. "He's unconscious, Harry," she said. "That—whatever he did with the centaurs, it must have worn him out. Can you get Umbridge?"

"All right," Harry answered. "_Mobilicorpus_!"

Hermione turned back to look at Snape, lying in the grass. The moonlight struck his face at odd angles; his face was lean and angular and hawklike, and Hermione wondered what he had said to the brown-haired centaur, Lahir Cahadhwy. "_Mobilicorpus_!"

That was the way the others found them, the two bodies floating next to them, Harry following Hermione as they made their way back to the castle. They took the two professors to the Infirmary, the curtains drawn around their unconscious bodies, and waited there, as Hermione insisted. Dumbledore had to tell them what had happened, she said.

Nearly an hour later, the fireplace flared green and Dumbledore stepped out. "Professor Dumbledore!" Hermione gasped, jumping to her feet. Harry was up just as quickly. "Where's Sirius?"

Dumbledore held up a hand. "Sirius is safe and uninjured," he said. "The Ministry has admitted Voldemort is back."

"Finally," Ron said. He was a little bruised after scuffling with Malfoy, and Madam Pomfrey insisted that he stay in bed while she treated him for his magnificent black eye. At that moment, there was thick orange salve spread over his face, and he looked extremely odd; the colour clashed especially with his flaming-red hair. "It's about bloody time!"

Dumbledore nodded. "Harry, I would like to speak to you about something," he said, his demeanour changing from satisfaction to weariness. "In my office."

"Okay." Harry followed the Headmaster to the fireplace, and with a pinch of Floo powder and a shouted phrase, they were gone.

Hermione sat back down on the bed. Ginny looked at her and said with relief, "Well, at least everything turned out right."

Hermione smiled, and nodded. But she wasn't half so sure. She stared out the window at the unruffled Hogwarts grounds below, quiet and settled and having no traces of what had occurred in the Forest. Then she lifted her eyes up to the sky, where the stars shone with a strange intensity, and the moon was bright, and for a moment, she thought it was tinged red. Then she blinked, and it was just the ordinary slim crescent.

She closed her eyes and lay down on the bed, breathing in the fresh, piney scent. Then her breathing slowed, and she was asleep.

**oOo**

Please review; feedback is greatly appreciated.

Talriga


	2. Chapter 2

See Ch. 1 for disclaimer. Thanks to my reviewers!

**Chapter 2**

They sat across from each other at the rectangular, sandalwood table. One man was tall, lean, his face angular, his body angular, sharp high cheekbones with dark eyes set in a craggy countenance. His hair was cropped short and neat behind his ears, straight black strands falling across his forehead like a raven's wing and tinted brown from exposure to the sun. His tanned skin was stretched taut across his lithe, sinewy body. His eyes were dark as ebony, smooth and polished and reflective.

The other man was tall as well, and just as wiry. But his skin was sallow and pale, and his straight greasy black hair fell to his shoulders, obscuring some of his face. He watched the other with interested dark eyes.

Both were called Severus Snape, and both of them were the man.

"You look different," the pale Severus remarked.

"I know," the other said. "I had to, in order to stay alive. Good thing you're unconscious—I can finally have a decent conversation in your mind." He paused. "Looks as orderly as ever. How's the storeroom?"

"Fine condition," replied Severus. "What happened? And… and how did Albus die?"

"Well," said the other Severus. He leaned back in his chair and pulled out a cigarette, lighting it. Severus stared. "You smoke?"

"Yeah," said the other. "It helps me not think about things. All right, then. I used a Time-Turner to travel back in time. Usually, it's only supposed to be for several hours, and if the period of time is any longer, the body disintegrates—it can't hold itself together. But the spirit lingers slightly, and so when you passed by Albus's office, I took the chance and jumped into your mind."

"On such a flimsy premise?" Severus asked.

The other one looked at him. "I think you'll understand," he said, "once you hear what I have to say."

Severus sat back, and waited.

The other Severus let out a long breath, coupled with a cloud of smoke. "So," he said, "tonight Potter and Granger tried to draw Umbridge into the forest. They succeed, the centaurs come on, and they're saved by Hagrid's half-brother."

"_What_?"

"Hagrid's half-brother, the giant Grawp," said the other Severus. "So Potter and his friends go off to the Department of Mysteries to save Black. But Black isn't there. It's a trap that the Dark Lord put into his mind—you know the connection that they have." He tapped his forehead. "They go—they find the Hall of Prophecy."

"Oh Merlin," said Severus.

"My sentiments exactly," said the other one. "Potter, being the inquisitive, nosy boy he is, picks up the prophecy. And the Death Eaters appear out of nowhere and demand it. Bellatrix is there, and Lucius, and Antonin Dolohov…" He shrugged his houlders. "All the rest. And they fight. The Order comes, and Black is killed by Bella. Potter tries to _Crucio_ her."

Severus raised a surprised eyebrow. "Wouldn't think he had it in him."

"Neither did I," replied the other Severus. "Didn't work anyway. The prophecy breaks, and the Dark Lord comes, along with Albus. They duel. The Ministry people come in, and they finally admit the Dark Lord's back."

"Fudge," said Severus, "is such a sad idiot."

"We all know that," said the other. "Well, the school year's over and I go back to Spinner's End. Then Narcissa and Bella come visit me. They want me to make an Unbreakable Vow, and I have to make it to escape suspicions. To protect Draco Malfoy. The Dark Lord gave him a task to do. And that I do it if he can't."

"What is it?"

"Kill Albus."

Severus jerked in his seat. The other Severus watched him steadily. "You killed him," Severus said in horror.

"He told me to, so I killed him. You would have killed him."

Severus wanted to shrink back into his chair, to escape the words that stung and tore and jabbed at his heart. Now he scrutinised the other one closely, and saw the sharpness, the emotionless eyes. But for a moment, the dark eyes flashed with something approaching grief. And he felt the coiled, tight emotions that were hidden and shuttered and stored in the other's mind.

"Long story short," said the other. "Albus dies, I run for my life. I'm a fugitive, a _murderer_." His voice twisted bitterly on the last word. "The Order collapses, the Ministry's destroyed, everyone's dead, Potter died."

"Potter died too?"

"Yes. I didn't see it, but he died. So…" his voice trailed off, and he looked away. "There's no-one to talk to, except for Hogwarts. She is sentient—she kept me sane. Otherwise…" He made a vague gesture with his hands. Severus knew what he meant—his mind would have fallen apart with the bottled-up emotions.

"What about the centaurs? How did you learn the language?"

"From a book," replied the other. "And talking to Lahir Cahadhwy, when he was captured and brought in. Before he died. He recognised that I wasn't like the others. We talked, sometimes. Until he was killed."

Severus closed his eyes. "Merlin," he said again.

"I know," the other said. "That's why I came back. To make sure it doesn't happen." He stood up from his chair. "I was thinking of blending our minds together to become one."

"I'll go insane," said Severus.

"No, you won't," replied the other. "I haven't, not yet." He perched on the table, his cream-coloured shirt and black pants contrasting with Severus's robes. "And our magic, combined together—it'll be amplified. Easier to do magic."

Severus stared at him. Finally, he said, "All right. For Albus's sake."

The other Severus nodded. He said, "The moment it happens, raise your shields, as fast as you can. I don't want to risk anything, and I don't want anyone else knowing. If the magic might get out…"

His outline was growing faint. He leaned over to Severus and seemed to pass into him. And now Severus's mind was struggling with the memories, and his body was struggling with the magic—

_Your shields_!

It was Hogwarts who cried it out to Severus, and he slammed them up into place, turmoil boiling inside him, keeping it from escaping, even as he gasped in pain.

Black spots danced in his mind, his pools of quicksilver rushing up around him, keeping the magic in, his mind sane…

**oOo**

"I am sorry I did not tell you sooner," said Albus, looking over his golden-framed half-moon glasses at the black-haired boy sitting in front of him. "But I hoped you would not have to always think of such a burden upon you. It—is hard."

"I suppose so," said Harry Potter. His face was pale and drawn, but there was a faint blaze of determination about him. He knew, now, what he had to do. "So—the prophecy. I kill him, or he kills me?"

Albus nodded.

Harry slumped down in his chair. "Well," he said weakly, "that explains why he went after me in the first place."

"Yes," Albus said gently. "If you don't mind—what happened tonight?"

Harry took a deep breath. "I've been having dreams about the Department of Mysteries for a while," he admitted. "And tonight I dreamt of Sirius being captured by Voldemort. So the others agreed to keep Umbridge away while I contacted Grimmauld Place.

"When I asked Kreacher about it, he said Sirius wasn't there. I thought he must be held by Voldemort, or something. But then Umbridge pulled me out of the fire. Malfoy and the Inquisitorial Squad was there. She called Professor Snape in and demanded Veritaserum, but Snape said he didn't have any available at the time."

Albus chuckled out loud.

Harry blinked, but he continued, "Umbridge got really angry, and she tried to cast the Cruciatus on me—she gloated about it, said she was the one who sent the Dementors and everything, and she was going to torture me to find out where you were."

Albus was no longer amused. His face was frozen with a sort of cold, burning anger. _So the Ministry sought to meddle with Hogwarts and my students that way_, he thought. _Unforgivables and Dementors. When I have a chance to speak with Cornelius again_…

_He will have much to explain. Very much_.

But he shook his head, and cleared his mind of his thoughts. "Continue, Harry," he said in a pleasant way. "You were saying…"

"Then I said to Snape that he's got Padfoot, he's got Padfoot at the Department of Mysteries. And he looked at me and said he didn't know what I was talking about. At that time I was so angry, I didn't think…" Harry's voice trailed off, a tone of shame in his words. "I was stupid, wasn't I?" he asked suddenly. "I should have asked Snape right off. It's just that he was so mad at me after the last Occlumency session."

"Professor Snape, Harry. Yes, you should have spoken to him—he is an Order member here, and I trust him. And you shouldn't have looked into his memories…"

"I know." Harry looked rather embarrassed. "But anyhow, Hermione started pretending to cry, saying something about having a weapon in the Forbidden Forest that, uh, you wanted, and Umbridge ordered us to take her to it. She pulled Hermione and me out to the forest, but then the centaurs saw us and surrounded us. Umbridge started shrieking about half-breeds, so they were angry about that. But then they started getting mad at us too, about how we were using them as tools to do what we wanted them to do. They were arguing about it when Professor Snape came. He started speaking to one of them; he was a brown-haired centaur, and he called him something like Lahir Cahady, I'm not sure."

Albus frowned. Severus knew who the centaur leader was? He had only found out from Firenze; the centaurs were very secretive about matters like that. But then again, Severus made regular forays into the Forest for Potions supplies; no doubt he had picked it up sometime. "I believe his title is Lahir Cahadhwy, but no matter."

"Er, well, in any case, he must have persuaded him to leave us alone, because the centaurs left. And then he checked with you and he was going to take us back, but then he collapsed."

"He _what_?" Albus leapt to his feet. "You didn't tell me this sooner?" He could not stop a note of worry from entering his voice. _What did Severus do? He wouldn't collapse like that, especially not in front of Harry. Unless he was really in pain, or exhausted_… "He's in the hospital wing?"

"Er, yes, Professor Dumbledore," said Harry guiltily.

Albus blinked. He realised that it must have seemed rather strange, the normally unruffled headmaster so concerned about a professor that many students disliked. _Only because he wants them to, because being a suspected Death Eater and being nasty may turn the students away from Voldemort. I daresay he enjoys it_. But he squashed that thought, and strode toward the fireplace. "I'll take you back to Poppy, Harry," he said, holding out a pinch of Floo powder to Harry and dropping it in his outstretched hand. "Hogwarts infirmary!"

With a whirl of green flames, he emerged from the infirmary fireplace, Harry stepping out after him—or rather, stumbling ignominiously and tripping on the ground. Albus normally would have turned to offer him a helping hand, but he was bending over Severus, who was lying in one of the nearby beds. The other students in the hospital wing were asleep. Poppy came out of her office. "Oh, Albus! What is it?"

"How's Severus?" Albus interrupted. "He doesn't faint like this, not unless something's wrong."

"Yes, well, he's a stubborn idiot," Poppy replied tartly. Then, after looking at Harry, who seemed amused that the menacing Potions Professor Severus Snape had just been called an idiot by the hospital matron: "Just like Mr Potter here, always refusing medical aid. Well, Mr Potter, you sit down right here and go to sleep, you are not about to go traipsing back out, not when you've just gotten out of the Forbidden Forest. Here," and she pushed Harry down upon the bed next to Severus's. Tucking him in with practised skill, she came over to Albus and said, "I've been monitoring him. His heartrate went up about five minutes ago, suddenly. He's better now, but I've got Dreamless Sleep potion right here. I don't know what he's been doing, speaking to the centaurs about having to rescue students, but it mustn't have been good for his health. But he never cares about his health, even though he gets tired all the time, just stays locked up in his rooms and reads books and says nothing all the time… Oh dear, I'm rambling. Sorry."

"Quite all right," Albus murmured, running a diagnostic spell over Severus. It brought up no serious injuries, except for perhaps a bad headache. _Headaches don't bring him down like this_, thought Albus. _He always has tension headaches, but they don't leave him this way_.

Suddenly Severus let out a sigh that sounded more like a moan, and turned his head to the side. Albus watched his colleague's face anxiously. But Severus had become more than a colleague, over the many years; he was Albus's protégé, his friend, his confidant. They plotted together about how to evade Voldemort's Legilimency and keep Severus alive, and more than once they had spent pleasant evenings vividly imagining ways to attack the incompetent Ministry. Not that Albus ever admitted it to Cornelius, of course. But he worried every time Severus was summoned, and breathed relief every time he came back. Sooner or later, he knew, the game would end, and Severus would suffer.

"Professor Dumbledore?" That was Harry's voice, quiet, hesitant. "Is he going to be all right?"

Albus turned to smile at Harry. "I think so," he said, his voice more sure than his thoughts. _No, Harry_, he thought to himself, _Severus will never be all right, not as long as Voldemort is alive. When he is destroyed… perhaps he will. Another reason that Harry must win_.

For perhaps the umpteenth time, he lifted his face up slightly to contemplate the scenario before him—or so it seemed. He saw Severus's sharp, bright, intelligent face before him, cunning and sarcastic and darkly amused, a Slytherin student who had just escaped death, a werewolf nearly mauling him and who now sat in his office, saying with astonishing nonchalance, "I think that's probably convinced the Dark Lord that I hate Gryffindors in general, Professor—don't you believe that too? And," he would add with sly impunity, "don't give me that look. I haven't insulted you, sir, you were a Ravenclaw."

_Everyone always asks why I trust him_, Albus said to himself. _It is because we have worked together for so long, more than twenty years. He was my friend even before he left Hogwarts, and he has always stayed that way, despite the accusations and insinuations and constant danger_.

_If that is not pure Gryffindor bravery and courage, what is_?

**oOo**

Severus opened his eyes, and saw light. The rays of golden sun streamed through the ripple-textured infirmary windows, casting dancing iridescent beams upon his bed, bars of light and darkness alternating along the sheets. He turned his head to the side, and his heart nearly stopped.

Albus sat in a chair, head dropped down on his chest, his spectacles slipping down his crooked nose, breathing lightly in slumber. He felt a feeling of jubilant triumph rise within himself, and he just as ruthlessly suppressed it. _Don't break out into song right now, or he'll think you've gone insane_.

_But it _is_ good to see the old man again_.

Severus felt nearly like crying. His memories warred within him: that of the older one, who had last seen Albus's broken body laid to rest, from the shadows of the Forbidden Forest at his funeral, and the younger one, who had only seen him about a week ago. But he calmed down and drew in a deep breath.

The headmaster opened his eyes with uncanny timing, and said, smiling, "Severus, how are you?"

He turned to look at Albus. "As good as I'll ever be," he replied, smirking back.

"I was wondering when you'd wake," murmured Albus. "You're tiring yourself out, Severus, you ought to rest every once in a while. You're killing yourself."

_No, I don't. I feel more alive than ever_. Even as Albus spoke, Severus felt his heart twinging with barely concealed happiness, and he already knew that he couldn't keep his emotions to himself around Albus for the rest of the summer. _My Occlumency shields aren't enough. Every time I look at him, I'll think of him dead, and then how will I speak to him without flinching_? He could already feel his magic begin to stir within him, reacting to his tumultuous feelings, and he squashed them down forcefully.

So he merely nodded, and closed his eyes again. He felt Albus shifting next to him, standing up from the chair, which gave out a long-suffering creak; heard him say, "Rest, Severus," and move off to do whatever work he had left undone. _Hah, Umbridge, even you can never drive off Albus from Hogwarts_. And then he thought a very uncomplimentary word about her, starting with the letter "b."

Albus, of course, being the old, nearly one hundred and fifty year old wizard that he was, and thus still holding somewhat of a Victorian view upon language and swearing, would have said, "_Language_, Severus," in a chiding tone, but then he always said that when Severus got started on a tirade against the Ministry. To which Severus always replied, "Well, you know it's true."

Then Albus would smile innocently, and cheerfully deny any such thoughts.

The curtains had been drawn around his bed, and now he became aware of a soft talking, which had died down when Albus left, now starting up again. He frowned slightly, trying to place the voice.

"…So it was Voldemort who was putting the visions in your head?" said a female voice. "I _told_ you that you should have been learning Occlumency, but no, you wouldn't give up your pride and go back to Snape for lessons!"

Granger, of course. The bookworm and prospective scholar.

"Not like I was learning anyway," muttered a sulky boy. Potter, no doubt.

"You still shouldn't have invaded his memories," snapped Granger. "Bad manners, the lot of you."

"We can't help it!" said another boy indignantly. Severus knew it was Weasley, because where Potter went, Weasley and Granger were sure to follow. "We're boys!"

The reply was a disgusted guttural sound of disbelief and exasperation. Severus tried hard not to smirk at Weasley's antics. He almost pitied Granger at times, having to deal with them both.

He was released later that day, despite Poppy Pomfrey's protests that he ought to stay in the infirmary. Sitting in his rooms, he wondered how he was going to get out of Hogwarts. _I need time away to think_, he knew. _Otherwise, I won't be able to stay calm, not when Hogwarts is whole and Albus is alive and everything is still all right_.

With a barely perceptible sigh, he reached for a copy of the summer edition of the _Eurasian Journal of Potions Research_. He flipped to the contents page and ran a critical eye down the list of articles. He quickly picked out the names of prominent Potions researchers, such as the famed and eccentric German research wizard Friedrich von Kulp (improvements upon sleeping draughts and aphrodisiacs, his mind supplied dutifully, and married five times, all to the same woman). Severus thought that the German wizard must have made good use of his research, a hypothesis which he felt was obviously proved by the fact that von Kulp had eight children.

There was also the fiercely patriotic Potions Mistress from Poland, Halina Laczniczki, known for conducting a study into the effects of pain potions (a subject on which Severus had rather a lot of knowledge, having learned through first-hand experiences what it could do to a person). She was famed for publicly speaking out against the oppressive Polish wizarding government during the 1980s, which retaliated, so to speak, by kidnapping and torturing her before it collapsed in 1991. They said she had never been the same since, being somewhat sporadic in her conversations. But she still had a brilliant mind, and Severus respected brilliant minds.

Then, of course, at the pinnacle of her famous two decade long career, the efficient, forceful, and influential Wang Qin, who had managed to completely overhaul Potions education in the Wizarding People's Republic of the Middle Kingdom, better known simply as China (or Zhong Guo, in Mandarin Chinese), and who now turned out Potions researchers at a phenomenal rate. Her ambitious students worked hard to meet her insanely high standards, which Severus greatly admired; she had also invented some new potion barely a month ago, which she made sure to keep secret, making only the most oblique references to it. Severus's interest was undoubtedly piqued.

There were other well-known names revolving in the sphere of Potions research. Severus himself had made several contributions to the journal, but in collaboration with others, and his chief claim to fame was attaining the mantle of Potions Master at the age of nineteen.

His eyes landed on a notice at the back of the journal. _Annual Potions Convention_, it read. _June 22 through July 20, 1996, in Johannesburg, South Africa. Conferences, lectures, and a presentation of the Goncourt Magos Prize to the Researcher of the Year_. The Goncourt Magos Prize, Severus remembered, was one of the most prestigious Potions awards. Louis Goncourt had been a nineteenth-century French researcher who had revolutionised the field with his use of different types of caldrons and stirring sticks. Before then, it hadn't mattered; nowadays, the chemical compound of the material was commonly known to affect potions, and Goncourt's name was known around the world.

_I haven't been to a potions convention in a long time_, he realised with a sudden jolt. _The last time was… 1989, maybe? I think it was in Montreal_.

Well, Johannesburg was suitably far away. He could meet some more Potions researchers, and talk about a purely academic topic. Much better than constantly waiting at the Dark Lord's beck and call.

Picking up an eagle feather quill, he dipped the tip into red ink and firmly drew a circle around the date. He would have to speak to Albus about it. But a month away from the fast-gathering storm about to break over the wizarding community of the United Kingdom… It seemed to be a very appealing option to Severus.

**oOo**

"BLOOD TRAITORS! FILTHY MUDBLOODS, HALF-BREEDS, HOW DARE YOU BESMIRCH MY HOUSE!" Within the dark and dank house of 12 Grimmauld Place, the portrait of the deceased Mrs Black was making a racket as usual, and Severus idly wondered if an _Avada Kedavra_ would silence her. With a rather disappointed sigh, he decided not to and instead pulled at the curtains. "Good day to you too, you rabid witch."

"At least we agree on that," commented a voice from behind him. Even before Severus turned to see the speaker, he already knew who it was. Black stood there, glaring daggers at the covered portrait of his mother. "What are you doing here, Snape?"

"She's like you," said Severus. "Only you're worse. And I really don't see why I should justify my actions to you, Black." He spoke blandly, which only seemed to infuriate Black even more, especially with his unfavourable comparison to his mother. But as Black tried to think up a retort, Severus had already brushed by him to enter the kitchen.

Lupin sat at the table, gazing contemplatively into his cup of hot cocoa. Severus ignored him and started making some tea.

"Snape, what the hell are you doing here?" Black stood in the doorway, glowering. _He's in a really bad mood_, thought Severus. _But then again, he usually is. Probably because Potter's back with his horrible relatives_.

"I have things to do," he answered. The teapot rose up in the air and poured some tea into a cup. He frowned at it and summoned two lumps of sugar, which he dropped into the hot drink. "I'm sure you will be as overjoyed as me to learn that I'm leaving for a month. No more suffering idiots for me, at least."

"Where are you going, Severus?" That was Lupin speaking, polite and neutral as usual. But then he was always that way, as though he did it on purpose to counteract the raging part of his character that was locked away within him and released every full moon, even if the Wolfsbane potion had now brought it under control. Black simply looked surprised, and then sneered a little, his emotions showing blatantly on his face. "Don't bother asking, Moony, it's probably Voldemort's lair."

"I highly doubt the Dark Lord has his headquarters in South Africa," was Severus's acidic response. "I don't think he would fare well in the sun; his skin would probably burn up."

From the looks on the other two men's faces, Lupin had realised that Severus had just made fun of Voldemort, and smiled. Black's face was blank.

_My god, has he totally lost his sense of humour_? Severus felt disinclined to be in their presence anymore, so he exited the kitchen, leaving the uncomfortable silence behind for the Black family library. He had planned on taking along some academic texts and other writings to read during his leisure time.

Both the Dark Lord and Albus had agreed that he could go to the South African city of Johannesburg. Of course, their reasons were quite a bit different. The Dark Lord had proceeded to fix his gaze upon Severus and say, coldly, "I shall still expect you to be in contact with Dumbledore and pass on any information."

"Of course, my lord." And then the Dark Lord imperiously gave his permission.

Albus, on the other hand, had simply twinkled at him (Severus, though, avoided his gaze, and consequently didn't see the somewhat worried look in his bright blue eyes). "Of course you can!" he said enthusiastically. "Go have a good time—I have a surprise for you when you come back. I think you'll like it."

Severus wondered what the surprise was, but decided not to bother asking. He would go off to Johannesburg, and then he would come back and start plotting about what to do with Draco's dilemma. He was sure that the Dark Lord would still give the task to Draco; he had been far too displeased with Lucius's failure at the Department of Mysteries break-in to not give him a punishment. And the Dark Lord always said that love was a weakness, and that emotions were useless—they could be manipulated to suit his ways, no matter how twisted that way might be, unfortunately for his victims.

_I pity you, Draco_, thought Severus as he picked out Alric Aranærdin's _The Character and Natureal Essence of Wild Magic_, Herz Baustein's _Upon the Realm of the Mind, and the Mysteries Therein_, and, after some thought, _An Accounte of the Wizard's Glass, or, The Most Lamentable Tragedie of Susann and Rolande_ by Stevenson Rey, one of the wizarding literary classics. _You shouldn't have to make a decision like that: kill, or have your family be killed_.

_I am sorry for him too_.

Severus jerked slightly at the words in his head; Hogwarts generally stayed quiet, unless there was something important or threatening about to occur.

_I promise you, Hogwarts_, he silently replied to the castle, _it will never happen. I promise you that, if nothing else. I swear it by Merlin's name_.

_There's no need to do that_, came the answer. _I know you will do what you came back to do. Have you remembered to speak to the Sorting Hat_?

_I haven't had a chance_, Severus said. _Albus is always there, and he would ask why I wanted to talk to the Hat_.

_I can distract him_, offered the castle. _Have something suddenly occur that demands his attention, when the two of you are talking_.

_All right. Thank you_.

_You shouldn't have to thank me_, Hogwarts said, rather solemnly. _We both want to prevent the same thing, after all_.

_I know_, said Severus, and reached for a copy of Ellis Graveworthy's _Two Kneazles_.

**oOo**

"Have a sherbet lemon, Severus?"

"No thanks, Albus," replied Severus. Albus's obsession with sweets was legendary around the school, both for his offerings and his passwords. Severus could just imagine the Dark Lord standing in front of the gargoyle, thinking up candy names.

The password this week was "Skiving Snackboxes." No doubt the Weasley twins—terrors, rather—would be greatly amused by this. Although he hated to admit it, they were creative geniuses.

Albus shrugged. "Well, I wanted to talk to you about your trip," he started, and then Phineas Nigellus was saying down from his portrait, "Dumbledore, Peeves is causing a spot of trouble in the Transfiguration classroom, and the Bloody Baron is asking for you."

"I'll be there," replied Albus in a resigned fashion. "Sorrry, Severus, if you'll be so kind as to wait a moment…" his voice trailed off as he hurried from his office, flashing blue robes and all.

The moment that the door closed with a click behind the headmaster's receding figure, Severus got up from his chair and strode over to the Sorting Hat. "Lo, Hat," he murmured as he put it on his head.

"Hallo, Severus," the Sorting Hat said. "I've been speaking to Hogwarts. She's been informing me of what you want."

Severus frowned. The castle hadn't mentioned that she had already told the Hat about him. "I suppose you want to look in my mind."

"You think I don't?" replied the Hat snidely, almost worthy of a Slytherin retort. "I don't blame you, of course—what a horrible time you must have had, and—By Merlin! I couldn't have been that bad-looking, was I?"

"Unfortunately, you were," replied Severus just as snidely. "Consequences of being left by oneself for several lonely years without even the sight of a house-elf to dust you."

The Sorting Hat shuddered, a long shudder, and said, "Horror of horrors."

But Severus recognised that the Hat, in its own way, was being deliberately flippant so the impact of his memories would be lessened, and so he said nothing.

"Well…" said the Hat. It hesitated, then said, "I see that your magic's been amplified."

"The results of merging two cores of magical energy innately the same," said Severus.

"You ought to experiment with it, then," said the Hat. "I know you've always been talented at magically difficult spells, and the non-verbal spells as well. Do you think it's possible that you could be able to perform wandless magic?"

Severus blinked. "Don't you think that would involve me expending too much magic?"

"Too much magic!" The Sorting Hat chortled. "Magical energy is the least of your worries, my dear boy. You've got a lot of magic locked up inside you right now. In fact, I do think it might be more than what Albus has. You need to practice with it though; all that magic shielded won't be healthy, it wants to be used. And with so much energy, you need to get familiar with using it."

"The problem is," said Severus testily, "I _don't want_ to flaunt my magical prowess and let everyone know that something's wrong."

"You'll still need to practice it anyway, even if you won't do it in public," said the Sorting Hat. "And it'll be helpful in duels. It's a good thing you're off to Johannesburg for a month—you can use the time there."

"Mm," said Severus.

"And if you're going for the element of surprise," the Hat said, "I suggest Muggle weapons. Do any of your pureblood acquaintances know the least bit about Muggle weaponry?"

"No," Severus said. "I highly doubt they even know what a gun is."

"And you do."

"And I do. I am literally a half-blood, after all."

"And you know how to use one."

"Vaguely."

"Well, then take that advantage. Muggle guns will work in Hogwarts, it's purely mechanical, not running on electricity—_that's_ the type of stuff that goes haywire, not guns. Really, it's not that huge a leap of reasoning—you could've figured that out beforehand."

"Perhaps," Severus snapped back, "except I've had to reinforce my Occlumency shields every single damn morning, and I haven't had time to go out to Muggle stores and buy something like that. I know what a gun is, but I hardly know what type."

"Fine." The Hat sounded sulky. "See if I ever help you again."

"You will," said Severus blandly.

The Sorting Hat huffed. "What about knives?"

"Are you trying to throw out the name of every single physical weapon you can think of? When I asked for help, I was imagining something more helpful."

"Well, I _am_ sorry," came the sarcastic reply. "Greasy git."

"Stuck-up Sorter," said Severus. "Don't bother trying to insult me; I've got skin thicker than a bicorn's, and that's saying something. Figuratively, of course."

_You two are so silly_, said Hogwarts. _I ought to bang both of your heads, except Severus wouldn't care, and the Hat doesn't have one. Albus is coming_.

Severus whipped the Hat off his head. "Thanks anyway," he said perfunctorily. "I'm sure your advice will be of great aid to me."

"For Hogwarts," the Hat said.

By the time Albus Dumbledore entered his office again, the Potions professor was sitting in his straight-backed armchair again, staring at nothing in particular.

"Ah, Severus."

Severus turned his face slightly to face his friend. "Albus, what did Peeves do now?" He put the required amount of exasperation in his voice. "We really ought to exorcise him, you know."

"But then who would provide our comic relief?" came the reply. "He gathered several buckets of muddy lake water," said Albus, "and dumped it all over Argus Filch while he was cleaning the Transfiguration classroom, and the Bloody Baron had a huge headache about it."

"Never knew ghosts could get headaches," Severus said.

"Neither did I," Albus replied, smiling at Severus. "I've arranged all the transportation for you, Severus, and I do hope you have a pleasant time."

"Hopefully," said Severus. "I think it must be my first vacation in quite a while."

"1989, to Montreal, yes," Albus said. "I'm sure you'll be happy when you come back—Merlin knows you're irritated by your students."

"Almost all the time," Severus sighed. "Potter's annoying, Weasley's brainless, Granger's a show-off of her knowledge, Draco has his grievances, and Crabbe and Goyle are idiots—but I have to keep those two in Potions, or otherwise their parents would have my head. We seemed to have forgotten that an unfortunate side effect of being a spy is that I'm expected to show favouritism to the Death Eaters' children, who don't particularly deserve it and who haven't gotten any more intelligent than their parents."

"That is unfortunate," said Albus. "I really do think that you deserve a break from Potions, you know."

"And then who would teach Potions?" Severus said archly.

"Imagine," Albus continued, "if you were to teach some other subject, in which there is no favouritism, no doubt you would have some relief from those you dislike."

"I happen to dislike a great deal of the students here," said Severus. "I've pretended to dislike them for so long that I do dislike them. Can you blame me?"

"No," said Albus.

"And what about the Defence teacher this year? I suppose you could ask one of the Order members, like Shacklebolt—he's at least a reliable candidate, much better than that Umb—"

"Language, Severus."

"I was going to say Umbridge, Albus, although you know as well as I do that she deserves a worse name. Do you want another Death Eater or idiot in the position? I swear, the Dark Lord was a sly little thing when he put that jinx on the position. No-one decent has bothered to apply for it."

"I think you're quite decent, Severus," Albus said. "And you apply every year."

"Only because the Dark Lord wants me to." Severus got to his feet. "Well, Albus, be careful. Now that the Ministry's admitted the Dark Lord's back, he won't be quiet anymore."

"I know, Severus." Albus reached into his robes and handed him a round, flat stone, an elaborately carved "H" etched into its transparent green surface. "That's the Portkey, and the activation word is 'Johannesburg.'"

"All right." Severus stepped back from the desk and picked up his small trunk, packed with his necessities and nothing extraneous (except, perhaps, for a small bundle of books). "Goodbye, Albus. I'll see you in a month."

"The same for you, Severus."

Severus nodded, and raised his head to look Albus straight in the eye, fixing the image of him, standing tall and strong beside his Headmaster's desk. "Johannesburg!"

And his surroundings blurred into a mass of brown and red and silver and gold green blue _oh god I hate Portkeys they make me sick_ brown grey black white brown brown brown brown—

He landed deftly on his feet, swaying slightly as he fought to get his bearings on his new location. A young clerk at the desk in front looked up and flashed him a bright smile (evidently a requirement of clerking at travelling desks was that all of them should be annoyingly cheery, thought Severus). The clerk stacked a pile of papers to the side, then turned his full attention to Severus.

"Hello, sir, and welcome to Johannesburg!"

**oOo**

I had a great time making up the characters of the famous Potions researchers. Friedrich von Kulp, I assure all, is not based upon anyone I know. The name of Halina Laczniczki is a tribute to the _laczniczki_, the young girls who ran under fire to deliver important messages and died in the hundreds during the Warsaw uprising of 1944 against the German occupation (not the ghetto one; the later, less well-known one). And the character of Wang Qin is based upon one of my best friends, who is as efficient, as smart, and as determined as they come—my mother.

"Magos" is Latin for magic, I believe.

The books Snape picks up in the Black library: Stevenson Rey and his book is, obviously, Steven King's _Wizard's Glass_, part of his Black Tower series. Ellis Graveworthy's _Two Kneazles_ is a nod to Samvimes's _Cartographer's Craft_, although I'm not incorporating any of his backstory into my fic.

Review, please. :)

Talriga


	3. Chapter 3

See Ch. 1 for disclaimer. Thank you to everyone who reviewed!

**Chapter 3**

Johannesburg is a city in northeastern South Africa, and the capital of Gauteng Province. It sprawls upon the southern slopes of the Witwatersrand, a rich gold-mining region that is South Africa's industrial heartland. The city is the largest and most important one out of the Witwatersrand's string of ten towns, from Springs in the east to Randfontein in the west.

It is the economic and financial center of the Witwatersrand region, which produces forty percent of the country's gross domestic product. It is home to the Johannesburg Stock Exchange, founded in 1887 and the biggest in Africa. Most mining companies have their headquarters in Johannesburg, and manufacturing industries make their home in the city as well. It is home to government branch offices, consular offices, and other institutions usually only found in capital cities. Johannesburg is also the hub of South Africa's road system, with national highways linking it to Cape Town, Durban, Pietersburg, and Nelspruit.

No-one is precisely sure where the name Johannesburg came from, but some say it was named for Johann Rissik, acting surveyor general of the South African Republic (a former Afrikaner state in the Transvaal region), or perhaps Christian Johannes Joubert, head of the South African Republic mines department.

The city stands at an altitude of 1,750 meters, thus moderating the climate. Rainfall averages 850 millimeters a year. The mean temperature in July is 10 degrees Celsius, and 20 degrees Celsius in December.

It was June twenty-first, and Severus Snape found, much to his pleasure, that it was a very bright and sunny day.

**oOo**

"My name's Severus Snape. I believe I had reserved a room here…?"

The clerk who stood behind the check-in desk was a type of clerk much different from the travel office clerk who had greeted him in such a disgustingly jovial fashion when he had first arrived in Johannesburg around an hour ago (the hour had passed by with the Disgustingly Jovial Clerk cheerfully pushing tourism pamphlets toward Severus before he managed to get the message across that he was not a tourist, he was a wizard who was there for professional reasons). She was a twenty-something, dark-haired, dark-skinned girl, with a pretty, narrow, sly face, and an air which spoke of cold, emotionless efficiency and intelligence. Her nametag read "Alice Zunkel."

"Yes, sir. Your room is on the floor reserved for the participants in the Potions Convention here, the highest floor, floor six. Room number is 612." She handed him the room key. "Have a nice day." The sentence was perfunctory.

Severus nodded to her—a polite movement from him which, if anyone in England had seen it, was sure to shock them out of their wits—and started for the elevator.

The Strildom Hotel was probably the best wizarding hotel in Johannesburg, located a few blocks away from Eloff Street. Oh, it wasn't luxurious or anything like that, but it gave what you wanted. The proprietor of the hotel, a certain J. Strildom, demanded the best employees and the best service. It catered to the wizarding clientele who came here for business purposes, or academic, or even recreational. The lobby wasn't overly showy, but it had a pleasing combination of colours and shapes. Severus rather liked it.

He came up to the elevator and pressed the button for "up." Unlike most wizards, Severus was comfortable with the Muggle world. Being a literal half-blood, he knew quite a bit about the non-magical universe. And it was just as well for his spying too; he was never nervous in Muggle settings. The only problem was getting the Muggle papers at Hogwarts.

Sometimes he couldn't help but feel contempt for the more clueless wizards and witches. They sniffed and looked down on Muggles, but Muggles outnumbered them who knew how many times, and Severus was quite certain that no spell could, so far as he knew, compare to the utter destruction of Hiroshima and Nagasaki by the atomic bomb.

_Element of surprise_, he thought wryly to himself. _Perhaps I shall see about getting a gun, after all_.

At that moment, a small _drrrringgg_ sounded, and the elevator opened. Severus stepped in, the doors closing behind him. "Sixth floor," he said aloud.

A small tinny voice repeated, "Sixth floor," and the elevator shot up quickly. When he exited the elevator at the sixth floor, he paused to send a glare the elevator's way. The mechanism, being pure machinery, did not reciprocate. Sighing a little, he dragged his trunk down the comfortably wide corridor, swiftly running his eyes over the room numbers. "612," he said to himself. "There it is." He unlocked the door with the key and pushed.

As the door opened, the lights in the room automatically lit up. It was a very roomy sort of place; there was a small sitting area, with a few cushioned chairs and a square table. He could see a small doorway off the back, which led to the bedroom. He closed the door behind him and surveyed the scene. _Yes_, he thought, _this convention will be very interesting indeed_.

**oOo**

The Carlton Centre was fifty stories high. Next to it was the somewhat shorter, inconspicuous Arts Centre—that was, for Muggles. For wizards and witches it was as plain as could be, especially with the large sign saying "Potions Convention" right above the door.

Severus passed through the doorway and entered the lobby, picking up a schedule as he did so. Flipping it open to the first page, he noted the first activity of the day—evening, to be more accurate. _June twenty-second, 6:00 p.m., opening banquet in the Feste Room_. He closed the pamphlet with a nearly audible snap, and joined the line of people filing into the dinner hall.

The dinner hall was full of round tables, four chairs set around each of them. In the middle of the tables glowed large, tapered white candles, set magnificently in bronzed candlesticks and decorated by small, vaguely fragrant flowers.

Severus frowned. The whole scenario seemed a little too showy for his taste.

He sat down at one of the tables that wasn't occupied at all—he didn't know so many of the people there personally, so it didn't matter to him where he sat. He looked at the program again. It was a long list of speeches, he saw to his dismay: opening speech, keynote speech, a speech about the constantly changing world, the revolutionary Potions discoveries and such, and a closing. At least they were considerate enough to have the dinner halfway through.

The chairs next to him squeaked as someone sat down. "Unhappy about the program?" a voice asked in English with the slightest hint of some unrecognisable accent. "I do too. I complain about it every year to the coordinators, but they always keep it there."

Severus looked up. "I wouldn't know," he said neutrally. "I haven't been to any conventions in a while." He looked at the two people sitting to his right. Both of them were Asian, and were dressed in dark blue robes of a quality which spoke of a high rank. The older one, sitting next to him, was a little haggard-looking, although her face was still keen and sharp; she looked to be perhaps several years older than him. The younger one was the exact image of the other, no doubt her daughter. "I'm Severus Snape, Potions Master at Hogwarts. A pleasure to meet you…?"

The older woman smiled, a brilliant smile that seemed to pour vitality into her body. "I'm Wang Qin, or Qin Wang, as some people call me. Wang is my last name, head of the Chinese Potions Institute. This is my fifteen-year-old daughter, Ming-yue."

Severus straightened. _Wang Qin—and I didn't recognise her_… "Let me rephrase my last statement, Mrs Wang," he said. "It is an extraordinary honour to meet you."

Wang Qin smiled, obviously amused. "You may call me Wang Qin, Professor Snape," she said formally. "I have always found your British Mrs somewhat discomfitting. And I say it is a pleasure to meet you—the youngest person ever to obtain a Potions Mastery. You even beat all my students." Yes, she was distinctly amused by this.

"That, I am surprised at. Considering the extraordinary level of your students, I am astonished that my record still stands," said Severus.

"You are too unkind to yourself, Professor. I read your Potions Mastery dissertation many years ago, on the subject of the Draught of Living Death, and I found it very intriguing. I am surprised that you have not published more papers."

Severus said, a note of undeniable sarcasm in his voice, "It is hard to do research when eleven-year-olds constantly blow up caldrons in my classes. And some fifth-years, as well."

"And that," said Wang Qin, "is why I am at the Institute—just for those who want to do more than dabble, you see. I am surprised that you haven't already went to another Institute—I hear that there is one in Paris."

Severus replied, "Well, I suppose I am a little too attached to my home country." _Not exactly_, he thought. _Just the fact that I have an ugly mark on my left forearm, and nothing else. What a stigma_.

"I suppose you are," Wang Qin said. She seemed to be scrutinising him rather discreetly, although Severus could still tell that she was doing it, despite her best efforts. "Do you have any projects in the works?"

_Yes, I do, involving a complete turnaround of the space-time continuum, and keeping formerly dead people alive. It is making me rather busy at this time_. "No, not at the moment," he said. "I'm too busy, too much so for any projects. I heard that you had something you were working on though, were you not?" As soon as the words left his mouth, he mentally slapped himself on the forehead. Wang Qin was notoriously secret about her experimental potions, and any queries about it served to raise her suspicions.

She nodded. "I finished it around a month ago," she said cryptically. "Although I think that I am still feeling some of the side-effects." And she gave him an odd look again.

Her daughter now spoke up. "Professor Snape," she said, "speaking of side-effects, what do you think of the Wolfsbane potion?" Wang Qin gave her a warning glance, which Severus decided was of the chiding, cautious variety.

"The Wolfsbane potion?" Severus echoed. Then he recalled a fact about China, one which happened to make a lot of British wizards avoid the East Asian country. It openly accepted werewolves as a part of society, not people to cast out. The overall mindset of the Chinese wizards was that magical humans themselves were an anomaly, especially considering the astonishing number of species of magical creatures and comparing that to the small population of wizards and witches. Werewolves could only be thought of as an unfortunately cursed minority, an anomaly of an anomaly, and if the potion kept them from spreading lycanthropy, why be scared of those who had fallen to misfortune? Of course Wang Ming-yue would be interested in that; of course, she would be asking him, considering a werewolf had taught at Hogwarts and he had had to brew it himself for Remus Lupin. "Do you mean how it affects werewolves in general?"

"Yes," said Ming-yue.

Severus leaned back into his chair. "Hmm," he said. "It really depends upon the mindset of werewolves. I did a little bit of research long ago on werewolves, and the commonly accepted view of lycanthropy, according to Lathrup's theory, is that it is like some virus, infecting the part of the mind that is key to rationality. Rather like a strain spread throughout the brain. A quirk."

"So they say," Ming-yue said. "That would account for why most werewolves are either feral, like your Fenrir Greyback, or they try to stay calm and rational."

"If they didn't," Severus said, "then, yes, they would go feral. They force themselves to have unnatural control over their reasoning, so that the strain doesn't take hold of them during the times when they stay in human form." _Like Remus Lupin_, he thought.

"But what if it isn't?" asked Ming-yue.

"Excuse me?"

"What if it isn't a strain?" Ming-yue repeated. "Not a virus, I would say, but more like another entity, making them slightly addicted to it on purpose?"

Severus stared at her for a moment, and then leaned forward. "What do you mean by that?"

"Several months ago," said Wang Qin, "my daughter and I were brewing Wolfsbane potion for the werewolves who request it from the institute. We gave the potion to them and took them to the room where they usually change. There was nothing unusual about it—it is a policy we have been following for a while. But the next morning, when we went down…"

Ming-yue shivered. She picked up where her mother had left off. "Everything was bloody," she said quietly. "Some of them were nearly dead from blood loss. They were in the hospital for nearly a week. We asked them what had happened. It turned out that some of them had been attacking each other, despite the potion. That—they had lost their control anyway."

Severus sat back, stunned, and blinked violently, as though he were hoping that those words had not just come from Ming-yue's mouth. "What about the month after that?"

"It happened again," said Ming-yue. "And again and again. Every time more of them lose control. The potion isn't working anymore, Professor Snape."

"You say they've been taking it for a long time," Severus said. "What was the shortest time one of them took it—one who lost control?"

"Two years."

A speaker was standing on the stage, saying something about how welcome all the potions researchers were to Johannesburg, and how they hoped the convention would be interesting. Neither of the three at the table were paying attention to the speaker. They were looking at each other.

"The longest time?"

"Four years."

Severus frowned. "How could this be happening?" he murmured. "You say it has something to do with the potion—"

"Yes," said Ming-yue. "You see, Professor Snape, this is why we sought you out. We heard about how a werewolf taught at your school for a year—you have experience in brewing the Wolfsbane potion, which, by the way, I must commend you for—it is a highly difficult potion, I know it myself. But if you had noticed anything, perhaps a little off about the professor…"

He thought for a moment. "I'm not sure if my observations will be of any use," he said finally. "I could only provide the Wolfsbane potion for a year, and then the next year he didn't receive it either—he had some other matters to attend to. Our Ministry, being the prejudiced thing it is, doesn't provide the potion at all; I daresay some of them think all werewolves should be put to death. So I would not know about the werewolves in England and their circumstances. What does this have to do with what lycanthropy is?"

"Well," said Wang Qin, "you see, Ming-yue thinks the lycanthropy might be sentient. Not a mindless virus, which simply attacks the mind, but a sentient presence, which actively tries to subvert the Wolfsbane potion. Like bipolar disorder, you see, where a person has two different part of his mind. Only in this case, one is human and one is… wolf."

Ming-yue said, "It's like the lycanthropy is changing itself to avoid the potion's effects."

Severus said, "The professor did… grow a little irritated sometimes. I still meet him at times, but he gets the Wolfsbane potion only sporadically. You say you provided it regularly?"

"Yes," Wang Qin said. "I postulate that—well, you know of the slight addiction that the Wolfsbane potion causes. But you see, if lycanthropy is trying to change itself to get around the potion, the addiction might not be a cause of the Wolfsbane potion—"

"—but that of the lycanthropy," finished Ming-yue. "Yes, perhaps the Wolfsbane potion stifles the lycanthropy for a while, but all that time the lycanthropy is studying how it works, seeing how to break free of it. Then, once it can do so…"

Wang Qin said, "After the Wolfsbane potion stopped working, all of them lost their addiction. Because it doesn't need the Wolfsbane potion anymore, it's figured out how to get around it."

"And we don't know what to do!" Ming-yue whispered harshly. "We've sworn all the werewolves to secrecy about this, but if this gets out, what will happen to them? Even our government won't take this happily. We once accepted that it was simply a quirk, an unfortunate happenstance, but if word gets out that it's an actual thinking thing that tries to take over us—they won't stand for it."

Severus's mind was racing. _Imagine_, he wondered with a horrified realisation, _a lot of Fenrir Greybacks, running around the country. Lupin's the bloody archangel Gabriel, compared to him_. "So the feral werewolves," he said slowly, "like our dear Fenrir Greyback back in in England. It's not a strain in their mind…"

"No," replied Ming-yue. "I think that somehow the barrier between the two minds must have broken, and they were mixed together—loss of rationality, but they can still interact with others, albeit in a limited way."

"So what are you planning to do?" Severus asked. "Find another version of the Wolfsbane potion to curb lycanthropy?"

"No," said Wang Qin. "We want to destroy it. Get rid of it. Can you imagine how it must be for werewolves—some alien, insidious presence in their mind, actively trying to ruin them, to take their bodies for themselves and use as they see fit? Who cares where it came from, warped magic or a disease or little green aliens? It seeks to destroy the human's free will, and we cannot allow that to happen."

Severus looked at them, both of them faces shining with a hard determination. "I agree," he said. "But if I may ask—why do you want to do it so much?"

And their faces turned hard. "Do you like werewolves?" asked Ming-yue.

"I don't mind them, so long as they do not try to pass on their lycanthropy," said Severus.

Wang Qin nodded. "Very well," she replied. She paused, then said flatly, "My husband is one."

"Your husband…" Severus blinked. He cast his mind back for something to remember, to perhaps recall: _Three years ago—a brief mention in a potions journal of how Wang Qin's husband, Hai Yan-shui, had been involved in some hushed-up incident, but there isn't any other information, and he thinks nothing more of it_. "The accident," he said. "Three years ago, I heard about it, but no-one knew what had happened. That was a werewolf attack?"

"Yes," said Wang Qin. "And not just any werewolf, you know. You mentioned Fenrir Greyback several times—he was the one who attacked Yan-shui. Nothing personal, just a petty romp through China while he was on his way to Russia. I hear he has gone back to England now. He—he is the one who is not human anymore… he embraced the lycanthropy, made it part of him; he wants to spread it around. Before, with the Wolfsbane potion, it wasn't so bad—Yan-shui didn't mind much. Now that it doesn't work—"

"My father," said Ming-yue, "is always in pain when he changes. We want to stop that. You know how wizards have always said that there's no cure for lycanthropy, as though it were a virus. But it isn't a virus. My mother and I want to make a destroyer of lycanthropy, one that will destroy the presence in their mind that tries to take over them and make them feral. I will not permit it of my father."

"No more lycanthropy," Severus said. "I think I can agree to that. I'll speak to the werewolf I know, about his transformations. I won't tell him anything," he added quickly. "Just ask him what happens. After all, if werewolves are of two minds, then even when the lycanthropic mind is in control, the human mind should still be somewhere…"

"We offer thanks, Professor Snape," said Wang Qin. Ming-yue nodded as well, saying, "Your help will be greatly appreciated, Professor. You will keep it secret?"

"I will," said Severus. "I can keep a lot of secrets, if need be."

_And as I am doing right now_.

**oOo**

It was late in the night when the dinner was finally done, and many of them left, heading for the Strildom Hotel. Severus walked next to Ming-yue and Wang Qin, his mind still whirling with the implications of what they had told him. If lycanthropy was what they really said it was…

_I am going to send a letter to Lupin tomorrow_, thought Severus, _and ask him. This is much too important to be ignored and set aside for a month. _Much _too important_.

"Professor Snape," said Wang Qin. "I want to speak to you before we enter the hotel." She motioned for the three of them to step into a narrow alleyway. She flicked out her wand and murmured a silencing ward; Severus could feel the magic settling around them—his reservoir of magical energy had made him more sensitive to magic being performed and invoked. His Occlumency shields and shields around his magic were the only things that kept him from being constantly distracted, and which kept him focused on whatever it was that required his attention.

Wang Qin turned around to face Severus. "I know this may be an affront to you, Professor Snape," she said. "You have offered secrecy, but how do I know that you will not tell the Dark Lord that is in your country?"

Severus jerked back in shock. He stared at the two women; but then he settled down, said calmly: "Then you will just have to trust my word, Wang Qin," in a very cool fashion.

Wang Qin looked at him, and then she smiled. "I thought so as much," she murmured. "You would not have said that if you were loyal to him—not that you are."

Severus looked at her, wondering how she had known about it. "I was wondering," he said lazily, "why you think I am not loyal to him."

Ming-yue laughed, a light tinkling laugh of silver bells. "You remember my mother's potion?" she asked. "The one that we did a month ago, the one that no-one knows about, except for me and her?"

"Yes," said Severus. There was no point in antagonising them; they had the upper hand, and his intuition, in any case, told him everything was fine. Severus's intuition had always been right for him.

"Ah," said Wang Qin. "That was the first potion we have ever made that did not turn out as planned. It was an advanced wit-sharpening potion, you see. We only planned improvements, not a whole other new one."

"Except it was," said Ming-yue. Severus watched the two of them, and noted how totally comfortable they were with each other; there was none of the tension that usually accompanied mothers and adolescent daughters. Unbidden, he thought of the Weasley twins' familiarity.

"I drank it down," said Wang Qin. "Everything looked as it was supposed to, the colour, the taste, the smell, everything. But when I drank it… well." She shrugged. "I can see souls now, Professor."

Severus blinked. _Was my old life ever like this_? he thought. _I don't recall hearing of this before…but then again, when the Dark Lord triumphed, none of his werewolves _wanted _the Wolfsbane potion. And by then, the country was completely cut off from the others_. "See souls," he said, more a flat statement than a question.

"Yes," said Wang Qin. "That is why I said I suffered from side-effects—because I did, in a way. That was how we decided that lycanthropy had a mind and soul of its own; that it reproduces through bites, because I could see two separate souls in my husband, and in the other werewolves as well. That was how I knew you were a spy against the Dark Lord, because while your left arm is a little black, your soul here—" she pressed her hand against her chest "—it shines more brightly than anything I have ever seen. That was how we knew we could trust you when you promised your secrecy to us—I saw that you were a man of your word. And so I resolved that there should be no secrets between us."

Severus stepped back involuntarily. He was not used to mere acquaintances putting so much trust into him, especially with his history of spying. But he looked into their eyes, and saw that they meant it.

"Very well," he said. _But even now I keep secrets from you, the two of you_, he thought. _Just because I can be trusted with yours doesn't mean you can be trusted with mine_. "You have been following news about the Dark Lord in England?"

"We have," Ming-yue replied. "At first, it was only because Fenrir Greyback attacked my father, and so we wished to take vengeance. However, now…" she bowed slightly. "You are our ally, now," she said, stepping forward. "You will provide us help with the lycanthropy problem, and so we will help you."

Severus bowed his head as well, in a mark of respect. "I will ask you when the time comes," he replied. "I thank you for your alliance."

"And we thank you for yours," said Wang Qin. She nodded once more at him, and then they were gone.

Severus sighed and walked to the wall of the nearby building flanking the alleyway, sitting down and putting his back against the roughly set bricks. _I am so tired_, he thought silently. _There is so much going on, and I—I must take care of things_…

He looked up. The sky was dark, with only a bare few sprinkling of stars across the deep black and blue. Streetlights cast soft muted tones of yellow upon the pavement; cars honked and screeched, and perhaps some doors slammed, some windows opened. And Severus breathed in the smoky air, the air of life and vitality and hope and dreams—that which had been lost when the Dark Lord had won, so many years into the future, and which Severus had finally now found once again.

He thought—thought of lycanthropy, of Unforgivables, of Horcruxes, of death, of green light.

_I must take care of things_, Severus said to himself as he stood up again, _and I will_.

He brushed at his robes, dislodging some dirt, and walked back to the hotel.

**oOo**

Albus hummed absent-mindedly to himself as he walked up the pathway to the empty-looking home. Checking the address, he nodded once in confirmation and knocked on the door. "Horace," he said.

The door opened quickly and Albus slipped inside. As the door closed behind him, he heard several clicks as locks locked back into place. He turned to look warmly at the man who stood before him. "Horace," he said again, warmly. "I hope you're doing well."

Horace Slughorn looked back at him. He was a stout, overly plump man (at least, overly plump was an euphemism—desperately overweight seemed more like it). He said, "Hello, Albus. You got my letter?"

"Right here," Albus said, holding up the sheet of parchment on which an address was written. They passed into the living room. "I must say, Horace," he said, "this house looks much better than that flat a week ago."

"Perhaps," said Horace a little weakly. "But—oh Merlin, Albus—Tom's been sending me messages again, and I dare not ignore them. Here." He lifted up a letter and handed it to Albus.

_Dear Professor Slughorn,_

I have not seen you in quite a while. I still recall sometimes your Potions lessons, and how very enjoyable they were. You were always skilled at Potions, as I remember. Would you like to talk to me sometime?

_Yours truly,_

Tom Riddle

"Do you know what this means?" Albus asked, watching Horace's face closely.

"Of course I know what this means," wailed Horace. "He wants me to brew Potions for him, of course! Except—except how can I do that for _him_?"

"Voldemort, you mean?" Albus said pleasantly.

Horace shuddered. "Oh, Albus, You-Know-Who."

"I don't know who, Horace," said Albus cheerfully. "I do know it's Voldemort. Or Tom Riddle, if you prefer that name."

"He's threatening me," said Horace bleakly. "I don't know what to do—I haven't replied yet, and if so…"

Albus looked contemplatively at Horace. Then he asked, "Horace, how would you like to come back to Hogwarts?"

**oOo**

Remus sighed and pushed Sirius away from the stove. "Sit down, Sirius," he said wearily. "You can't cook worth anything. Let me." He took the frying pan from him and set it back onto the stove. Then he reached for a carton of eggs. In a quick succession of _crack crack crack_, three egg yolks tumbled into the pan and began to sizzle. The egg shells were tossed away.

"Make it mushroom, Moony," Sirius said eagerly. "I'm hungry!"

"When are you not?" Remus replied with a wry smile.

Another voice said, "I am too, Remus. Is there any more?"

They both turned slightly to see Nymphadora Tonks enter the otherwise empty kitchen. Her appearance was a square-jawed face, with blindingly bright and jarring short orange hair that curled around her ears. Her snub nose sniffed at the air. "Hmm, smells good."

"I just started cooking, Tonks," said Remus. "Have a seat."

Tonks slid into a chair next to Sirius. "I'm tired," she said flatly. "We were called out barely an hour ago—someone spotted a Dementor in Edinburgh. Had a hell of a time with our Patronus charms."

"What's your Patronus, Tonks?" Sirius asked.

"Chameleon, of course," she replied, grinning at him. "Would it be anything else?"

"Very appropriate, for a Metamorphmagus," said Remus. He was keeping a close eye on the eggs in the frying pan while he hastily sliced mushrooms. He was a master at making simple meals—it was something learned after years of living a frugal lifestyle, with little money to spare. "I swear, if you were an Animagus, you'd be a chameleon."

"Imagine how useful that'd be," declared Tonks, kicking off her shoes and leaning back in her chair. "Conceal and disguise, it'd come in handy. It came in handy for you, Sirius. A big, black, adorable dog."

"Adorable?" said Remus incredulously. "About as adorable as a Devil's Snare, I suppose you could say." He slid all the sliced mushrooms onto the flat side of the kitchen knife and dumped them into the pan. A loud sizzle made its way off the pan. He picked up a pair of chopsticks and began mixing it together.

"Yes, well, imagine Sirius turning into a squirrel!" Tonks laughed. "Or a big dragon!"

"You can't turn into a dragon," Remus interrupted. "It's impossible to turn into a magical creature."

"Why not?" Sirius said indignantly. "Sirius Black the Hungarian Horntail to the rescue!"

"Of your own mind, perhaps," said Remus, trying hard not to smile. "Since they're magical creatures, wizards wouldn't have enough magical energy to be able to turn into one."

"Oh." Sirius thought for a moment, and then said, "What about Dumbledore? He could turn into a phoenix, can't he?"

"He's not an Animagus, Sirius," said Remus. "And I tell you, no, he wouldn't be able to turn into a dragon. Stop acting foolish, Padfoot. Put your mind to something else."

He slid the fried eggs onto a single plate and placed three metal forks beside it—made of stainless steel, not silver. He carried the plate over to the table and set it down. Sirius grabbed for a fork and promptly ate one of the eggs. Once that was done, Remus snatched away the plate and offered it to Tonks. "Really, Sirius," he said scoldingly, "try and be polite, will you? Don't act like a dog!"

"Would you rather I act like Snape?" Sirius demanded. He fixed a glare upon his face and stared at him.

Remus snorted. "You are so hopeless at it, Sirius. And stop insulting Severus, he makes my Wolfsbane potion for me."

"Only because Dumbledore makes him, and not even every month," snapped Sirius. "If he had it his way, you'd be in a Ministry holding cell without any potion at all."

"You're too unkind to Severus, Padfoot. I couldn't have the potion because I was trying to figure out where Fenrir Greyback was, and he couldn't exactly bring me the potion without falling under suspicion."

"I agree," said Tonks unexpectedly. "I mean, Sirius, he's a right bastard, but he's intelligent, and that's what we need, all right? Don't start complaining now."

Remus grinned at her. She grinned back, and winked.

Remus grinned again. Oh yes, this was Gang Up On Sirius Time!

"Besides," he said brightly, "I bet he could look good if he smartened up a little bit."

Sirius sputtered.

"If he cut his hair," said Tonks musingly, "and he didn't look so pale—"

"Argh!" Sirius yelled. "Don't you dare chat up Snape, you hear me!" It was only as the words left his mouth that Sirius seemed to have realised what he had said, and sank back into his seat with a horrified moan.

"Why, Sirius?" Tonks said, an expression of mock innocence on her heart-shaped face. Her bright blue eyes looked curiously at her cousin, who seemed revolted by her next few words. "Do you want him for yourself?"

This time, Sirius did honestly glare at both of them. "You two are sick," he muttered, and fled the kitchen. Behind him, there was a burst of hearty laughter.

Remus watched Sirius as he left, still laughing. "Oh, God, Tonks," he said, "the _look_ on his face. Can you believe that he thought you were serious about it?"

"As if!" Tonks tossed her suddenly long curly brown hair back over her shoulder. "Really, he thinks too little of me!"

"I don't," said Remus. "Worthy of a Marauder, that was." He held out his hand, and Tonks solemnly shook it. Then he saw Sirius standing in the doorway, and smiled at his best friend. "Lo, Sirius," he said amiably. "Recovered from your conniption fit?"

"Not yet," grumbled Sirius as he sat back down. "You two are absolutely incorrigible."

"Amazing," said Tonks. "I didn't know that you knew what 'incorrigible' means."

"I'm not quite so idiotic as that," said Sirius.

"Really?" murmured Remus. "I'm surprised by that statement…"

"Oh, be quiet, Moony. You too, Tonks. Being so cruel to a poor dog."

"You're not poor, you're rich," Tonks said. "You've got the whole of Grimmauld Place, and the Black family vault, and your own."

"I would gladly burn Grimmauld Place to the ground," said Sirius, glowering darkly at the walls, "and I'll hug anyone who gets rid of my mum's portrait."

"Couldn't we paint something on her mouth?" suggested Tonks, twisting a lock of brown turned lime green hair around her right forefinger. "A handkerchief, to muffle her screaming?"

"Won't work," Sirius said glumly. "She put a charm on it so that no-one could interfere with the actual picture. She's insane, perhaps, but she wasn't exactly stupid either. Almost all the Blacks are that way—we're insanely brilliant."

"I can accept that," said Remus. "You're not exactly the most reasonable of men at times. Nor are you the most mature."

Sirius stuck out his tongue at Remus.

"My point proved," said Remus.

"Yeah," said Tonks. "I'm glad I escaped that. I'm not going to marry any relative of mine and turn out an inbred brat."

Sirius coughed and muttered, "Malfoy!" in the same breath.

"How old _are_ you, Tonks?" Remus asked curiously.

"Old enough to get married, according to my dear mater," Tonks said crossly. "Only my mum's haring after me to settle down and raise a family, and I want to fight in the Aurors right now. My mum's got her heart in the right place, but she's _so_ old-fashioned about marriage. Marry young, have children. Really, not like that advice did well for her sisters. Look at how they turned out!"

"Azkaban, and forced to suffer Lucius Malfoy and his brat," said Sirius. "Exactly what they deserved, anyway. Practically all of my relatives deserve what they got."

"What about your brother?" asked Remus.

A sudden silence descended upon the table.

"What about my brother?" said Sirius testily.

"Regulus? Did he deserve to be killed by Death Eaters?"

Sirius looked down at the table. Remus followed his gaze and saw his eyes tracing out the small wood grain lines in silence. "No," said Sirius. "He didn't."

Tonks looked back and forth between them. "Killed by Death Eaters?" she asked.

"My younger brother, Regulus," said Sirius. "He was two years younger than me, in Slytherin. He went into the Death Eaters, but he was scared and tried to back out—"

"I don't think that he was exactly _scared_, Sirius," Remus cut in. "He led the Death Eaters on a week-long chase before they finally caught up to him. That takes guts, to do that. If he was as scared and cowardly as you always say he was, then he would've stayed and done whatever he could to save his hide. You've being unfair to your family, Sirius, and you really shouldn't."

"I know," said Sirius, staring moodily at the table. "He was decent, I suppose. He never yelled at me about how I was a blood-traitor, when everyone else did. I wonder why he left the Death Eaters though; I mean, he still believed in blood purity and everything, so why?"

"Who knows what the dead think?" Tonks said quietly. "You can't bring the dead back to life, Sirius. All we can ever do is try and guess, and imagine what they would have wanted us to do."

"I suppose," Sirius muttered.

Remus wondered what Sirius was thinking of. His dead blood brother Regulus, his dead friends James and Lily and, in a way, Peter as well—Peter, whose Marauder spirit had died, and left behind a grotesque shell of a human…

He got to his feet, pulling up Sirius as well with him. "Come on, Sirius," he said, false joviality lacing his words, hoping to try and pull him out of his depression. "Let's go off to see Buckbeak, shall we?"

"All right," Sirius said. "Tonks, are you coming?"

His cousin leapt up from her chair and linked her arm with Remus's. "Of course I am," she said. "Lead the way, Remus!"

They strolled from the kitchen, and left behind a crackling fire, a table, and memories of lost family members, blood related or not.

**oOo**

Much acknowledgement and thanks goes to Encarta Encyclopedia 2005, which provided all of my information for Johannesburg. I had quite a time writing this...

Please review, even if it's only a simple "I like it" or "I don't like it." Reviews feed the writer, and that is the honest truth.

Talriga


	4. Chapter 4

See Ch. 1 for disclaimer.

I'm very, very pleased with this chapter. I really am. Thanks to those who reviewed!

**Chapter 4**

_International Floo Mail Express, twenty-third of June_

Dear Severus,

I hope that you have had, so far, a pleasant time in Johannesburg. Back here, the Ministry is in somewhat of an upheaval—Cornelius Fudge has resigned amid the furor over his lack of action against Voldemort, and Rufus Scrimgeour—do you remember him? He is—was the former Head of the Auror Office—Rufus has been elected Minister. At least we now know that the war will be prosecuted with vigour and determination.

Yesterday, I spoke to Horace Slughorn, who was Potions Professor before you. It seems that Voldemort has been sending him threatening letters. Either he must accede to his wishes, or the Death Eaters will go after him. Therefore, I invited him to stay at Hogwarts for the time being. Of course, he must have some official reason for being there. I have already offered him the Potions position, and I have given you the Defence position. It is what you've always wanted, isn't it?

Albus

_International Floo Mail Express, twenty-fourth of June_

Albus,

You—(here the ink seemed somewhat blurry)—

You gave Slughorn the Potions position!

What do you mean, "you've always wanted Defence." I don't care a whit for the position, you know that. And what about the jinx on the position? Put there by the Dark Lord, no less. How could you be so foolish as to do that?

I demand my Potions position back. Let Slughorn hide in the dungeons, if he wishes.

SS

_International Floo Mail Express, twenty-fourth of June_

Lupin,

I have a question for you:

When Fenrir Greyback bit you as a child, what do you recall of your transformation at that time?

SS

_International Floo Mail Express, twenty-fifth of June_

Severus,

I ought to tell you that when I received your letter, Sirius got very angry—he said some rather uncomplimentary things about you and the letter.

About Fenrir Greyback and my bite: Considering that I was very young when I received the bite, I highly doubt that I can remember anything other than pain. I was foolish, I admit—I wandered out when it was the full moon, and you know Fenrir. He adores making werewolves, albeit of a bloody kind. I do recall that I felt as though something was being pushed into my mind, taking over me and making me the wolf—but I suppose that wouldn't matter, would it? I'm a werewolf, either way.

I hope the Potions convention is going well.

Remus

_International Floo Mail Express, twenty-sixth of June_

Lupin,

I could care less about what Black thinks—if he ever does at all, considering the minute capacity of knowledge that his head is able to hold without inevitably exploding with idiocy.

SS

_Note slipped under the door of Room 607, twenty-sixth of June_

Wang Qin and Ming-yue,

My werewolf acquaintance wrote back in answer to my query. I include a copy of the relevant parts with this.

SS

_International Floo Mail Express, twenty-seventh of June_

Severus,

Really, now, that is too much. Horace has a perfect right to stay safe—you're being very uncharitable. No matter what, you are still skilled at Defence, and since the Dark Lord believes you loyal, he can of course lift the jinx on the position.

I have unfortunate news. Emmeline Vance is dead—Death Eaters went to her home and killed her. The Order is doing all right; we are busy, the Aurors especially, called out to help deal with giants and Dementors and Inferi. There is a particular lack of help with the Dementors—not many people can conjure up a Patronus. Since you will be taking the Defence position, you might think about putting the Patronus Charm in your syllabus.

How is the convention?

Albus

_Excerpt from a conversation: Severus Snape, Wang Qin, and Ming-yue, twenty-seventh of June_

MY: Look here, on the letter. Don't you see? He says, "I do recall that I felt as though something was being pushed into my mind, taking over me and making me the wolf." Something pushed into his mind—that's how they reproduce!

WQ: Sexual or asexual, Ming-yue?

MY: Asexual, Mother.

SS: I'm sure reproduction is all very interesting, but what I find more intriguing is the basic fact that werewolves find wolfsbane to be deadly. If we are to take your definition of lycanthropy, then it is the lycanthropic… organism that suffers from wolfsbane, not the human. It's only because the human is playing host to the lycanthropic parasite that the human suffers as well. Do you know if there is anything else that is hostile to the lycanthropy…?

WQ: Are you asking my husband to experiment with himself?

SS: … No, not at all. I was only asking.

_International Floo Mail Express, twenty-eighth of June_

Albus,

Just because I am a Death Eater doesn't mean the Dark Lord will lift the jinx. Don't you remember what he wanted me to do, fifteen years ago?

If you don't, I seriously think that you are suffering from memory loss.

SS

_International Floo Mail Express, twenty-ninth of June_

Severus,

My memory is perfectly fine. I don't see what the events of fifteen years in the past has to do with the present-day.

Albus

_International Floo Mail Express, twenty-ninth of June_

Albus,

Are you mad? You know why he wanted me to apply for the Defence position in the first place—because he planned on me being at Hogwarts only one year! Halloween, he goes to off the Potters, then he wanted me to kill you! How can you think that irrelevant? You give me the Defence position, you're asking him to kill you! (here the ink ended in a large black spot)

Albus, I am not doing this.

Severus

_Excerpt from Severus Snape's notes, written in shorthand, thirtieth of June_

L.V. H.

rg—G. h

dry—d. 1993 (b.)

lkt—R. A. B. ? (see G. P.)

hfpf c.— U. S. S. R. Ras.

rvc s.—F. F.

N.—L.V.

_International Floo Mail Express, thirtieth of June_

Severus,

You know what we agreed upon.

Albus

_International Floo Mail Express, first of July_

Albus,

You are a fool.

Severus

_Excerpt from a conversation: Severus Snape, Wang Qin, and Ming-yue, first of July_

WQ: Men. Would you believe that I told Yan-shui about what we were working on, and that—that silly man actually tried to figure out what else!

SS: Besides the usual wolfsbane and silver, you mean.

MY: He's in bed with nightshade poisoning.

SS: Oh. He didn't have to do that.

WQ: Unfortunately, he did.

MY: Yes, it was unfortunate. Mother and I have been doing some more research into the nature of werewolves. At the full moon…

WQ: The lycanthropy is a bit unusual, I will admit. It's only transmitted when the person is changed, and at the time of the full moon. At other times, if a person is bitten, it will not have any major effect—contrary to what the common people think. We had to go through a lot of files on werewolf bites, you know.

SS: Yes. About the Wolfsbane potion, though, I have been examining just exactly how all the ingredients come together. It's particularly complex; evidently, there just has to be the right amount of wolfsbane to suppress the lycanthropy during the transformation. But if there's too much, the human part is dragged down with it, and so both minds are destroyed.

WQ: We _are_ potions brewers. We already knew that.

MY: Why is the human mind taken along with it, Professor?

SS: I perceive that it is because there exists a connection between the two minds, at the time of the full moon. Then they struggle for dominance at that time. If there is any way that we can use Legilimency on their mind at that time, then perhaps we can separate the two parts. Even then…

WQ: What you're saying is that even then, there is the possibility that the lycanthropic side will win, and then where will you be?

MY: Does Legilimency work through a glass wall, sir?

SS: Are you so sure that a glass wall can keep a werewolf away from you?

MY: I've never needed to try it before.

SS: Better hope that the first time you do it isn't your last.

_International Floo Mail Express, first of July_

Lupin,

How strong is a werewolf? And what does your mind seem to experience during the changes at the full moon?

SS

_International Floo Mail Express, second of July_

Snape,

A werewolf is strong enough to frighten a cowardly, slimy teenage boy out of his wits. Good enough for you?

Sirius Black

_International Floo Mail Express, second of July_

Severus,

Sorry about Sirius's letter. He's being a little more irritable than usual.

For your information, werewolves are on the whole very strong. The Shrieking Shack is made out of wood, I admit, but there were a whole lot of strengthening charms put on the wood. I can't exactly say how strong, unfortunately. There is not much chance to figure out how strong I am when I'm transformed, you know.

As for what my mind is like when I transform… well, I feel like I really want to kill people, and at the same time I'm trying to keep myself from doing it. I suppose it's the wolf.

May I inquire as to why you are asking me this?

Remus

_Note slipped under the door of Room 607, second of July_

Another letter.

SS

_International Floo Mail Express, third of July_

Lupin,

I have been discussing the Wolfsbane potion with some others at the convention. That is all you need to know. As for Black, he is acting extraordinarily immature—as befitting a brainless Gryffindor, of course.

SS

_Excerpt from lecture by Halina Laczniczki, on pain potions and torture methods, titled "The Methods of Pain and How They are Caused: In a Polish Prison," fourth of July_

At that time, it was, of course, illegal to speak against the government about any petty thing, no matter if it was the unfair law about rationing out bread to the rich and poor, or if it was simply some minor violation. You were sent to jail and that was that. So when someone reported me to the government about me openly criticising it and demanding that it be overthrown… well, they were enraged.

(Someone in the audience shouts, "Down with the hypocrites! Tear them to pieces!")

To whoever that was, I appreciate the sentiment. (Laughter) I was taken to a secret facility out in the countryside near Warsaw, and they proceeded to torture me and accuse me of subverting the government in the most outrageous ways. In fact, I believe that one of them said I was responsible for giving him a diarrhea attack. I was—I still am, a Potions Mistress, after all. (Laughter)

Well, I still remember the absolutely foul taste of many of the potions they gave me. I believe that there was the Freosan potion, several times—I felt as though I was freezing to death. And the Draught of Fyr, as well. I don't know if you can imagine your body set on fire from the inside out, but I can. I still do.

So! Enough of my reminiscing, if being under torture can be called that. To first understand how to make a potion, you must understand how the potion works upon the body. I admit, torture potions are an unusual subject for a lecture, but it's probably the easiest to explain. (Ripple of nervous laughter)

Starting off, the body. (An image of the nervous system is projected) You see here, that the potions, when ingested, actively seek out the free nerve endings in the body. The free nerve endings are the nerves most sensitive to pain. When the potion reaches the free nerve endings, it doesn't actually cause pain to it, but it manipulates its messages to the central nervous system—there, that's the brain and the spinal cord—so that the brain and the person perceives the potion as causing pain. As a sidenote, the Cruciatus Curse does the same thing, although it is a spell and not a potion, and it's really rather boring, as torture goes. It just causes you to experience… pain. On the other hand, a lot of potions can make you feel as though you're being castrated, or raped, or set on fire, or frozen to death, or strangled, or paralyzed…

(Audience is silent, as images of people affected by aforementioned potions are shown)

_Excerpt from conversation between two students after Laczniczki's lecture, fourth of July_

S1: My god, Laczniczki's lecture was absolutely gory.

S2: Really? I thought it was rather interesting, and very informative.

S1: (Pause) I think you need to see a psychiatrist, Lars.

_Excerpt from Severus Snape's notes, in shorthand, fifth of July_

N. system—C. curse? L. l.—said affected c. nervous, see Longbottoms. Directly aff. nerve endings.

B. C. curse? See Norman's _History of the Unforgivables_.

_Addressed to the Burrow, Ottery St Catchpole, fifth of July_

Ron,

It's been absolutely dreary here at the Dursleys. After what with everyone telling them off at King's Cross, and Moody's eye—well, suffice it to say that they've been ignoring me all summer. Not that I can complain, but it's boring.

How's your family? I got one of the Ministry's pamphlets yesterday, about how to defend against Dementors and Inferi. Have you? I don't think that it's really helpful, though—just spouting off some information about defence, and doesn't even exactly say if they're going to come and help you. At least Fudge is gone, he wouldn't have been able to tell a Death Eater from a thestral, and Scrimgeour used to be the Head of the Auror Office. Anyone's better than Fudge—well, except for the Death Eaters… Nibblers… whatever.

Hope your summer's been all right.

Harry

_Addressed to 8 Sparta Court, London, fifth of July_

Hi Hermione,

How are you doing? By this time, I'll bet that you've already finished all your homework, haven't you? I hope you're doing all right—Death Eaters have been making attacks all over the country, and I don't want your parents to be caught up in the crossfire. Some of the Order members are already dead—Emmeline Vance was murdered, and other people have been attacked by Dementors. That bridge incident? It was the giants.

Hope to see you sometime this summer.

Harry

_Addressed to 4 Privet Drive, Little Whinging, Surrey, sixth of July_

Harry,

The whole family says hello. Mum won't let us play Quidditch, though—she says it's too dangerous. And the bad thing is that, well, it's true. Luna came over to our house the day before yesterday, and spent the entire afternoon talking to Ginny. I don't know how she manages to get through all that stuff about Snorkacks and whatever else, but at least it's funny. Bill got engaged to Fleur Delacour, would you believe that? Charlie's still in Romania, so Mum's in a right snit about that. She's been saying for the entire month that it's not safe, that Charlie needs to come back.

Percy still isn't talking to us, even after You-K—(here the words were crossed out) Voldemort went right into the Ministry. Of course, it's a good thing that Fudge's out of office—and did you hear? Umbridge got sent to some place in mainland Europe to "recover from trauma," they say. I think it was a town called Dubrovnik, in Eastern Europe. Hah! I hope she stays there and rots like the rubbish she is. I'm sure you feel the same.

I'm nagging at the others (not my family, you know who at you know where) to let you come to the Burrow for the summer. I'll make sure you do, and Hermione as well.

Ron

_Addressed to 4 Privet Drive, Little Whinging, Surrey, sixth of July_

Harry,

So what if I've happened to finish my homework? You need to get started on it, if you haven't; besides, have you even _looked_ at what Professor Snape assigned us over the summer? A seven foot long essay on healing potions, spanning across all categories. For _everyone_, even those who aren't going to take his NEWT classes. Or his potions classes at all.

(I think that the information will be very helpful, what with Voldemort out there. You'd better read up on it, if only to be ready.)

To be honest, I haven't told my parents much about Voldemort at all. I even stopped getting the _Daily Prophet_, frankly. I don't want to worry them too much, and if they knew, they'd try to stop me from going to Hogwarts, I think. I'm afraid they won't understand, that they might think that if I leave the magical world, the Death Eaters won't come after us. They'll still come after us, no matter what, just because I'm a Muggle-born and they're Muggles. I'm not sure they'll see it that way. However, it is horrible to see what's been happening. I hope that you are well. Remember, if you have any dreams or visions, don't keep them to yourself. You nearly went straight into Voldemort's trap at the Ministry, at the Department of Mysteries, and it was all a trick in the first place—Sirius was fine. So be careful.

Hermione

_Addressed to 4 Privet Drive, Little Whinging, Surrey, seventh of July_

Harry,

I've been badgering Dumbledore for some time about letting you come to headquarters; so has Ron, and he finally said yes! We'll be coming to pick you up at six o'clock in the evening, the seventeenth of July.

Sirius

_From Alistair Norman's book_ History of the Unforgivables

Introduction: The Public Perception of the Dark Arts

One of the most commonly mistaken perceptions of magic by the present-day wizarding world is that Dark magic, illegal, is used with an intent to harm, and Light magic is not. Despite the many Dark spells and potions that are outlawed in the wizarding world of the United Kingdom, the Dark Arts as a whole has never been illegal. The fact that the Dark Arts are openly taught at the Durmstrang Institute in mainland Europe serves only to show that it is more to be recognised as an openly accepted branch of study, at least throughout most of Europe (for instance, the Scholomance School for the Study of the Dark Arts). The heavy regulations on the practice of the Dark Arts are indicative of their potential for harm, perhaps to the community, perhaps to the practitioners. However, that has never meant it was to be outlawed; judging by the prominent influence of many pureblooded families, such as the Blacks and the Malfoys, who openly practice the Dark Arts, practitioners may remain respected members of British wizarding society, as long as though they do not go "rogue," the term used for those who step outside the boundaries of the law, often because of Dark Arts related dementia, although sometimes they are fully aware of their actions (See Chapter Five: The Dangers of Dark Arts).

Over the past few centuries, Dark and Light magic have been seen as differing solely in intent, Dark for harm, Light for good. However, if this were so the case, then one could argue that the Imperius Curse was fully justified in controlling people's behaviour, if it is "for the good of the whole." At the same time, the Levitation Charm, _Wingardium Leviosa_, while almost certainly "Light" magic, would still be used for harm, if, for instance, someone were to cast it upon another and use the spell to fling the unfortunate person over a cliff.

Upon close examination of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, one discovers exactly how public perception differs from reality. There happens to be a Ministry Registry for the licensing of legitimate Dark Arts research and researchers; also, a list of officially sanctioned Dark Arts consultants and retainers, along with ongoing inspections and periodic renewals of licenses.

It appears clear that the public perception is skewed, and, as thus, is incorrect. But the question remains: what, exactly, are the Dark Arts?

Chapter One: A Brief History of Magic

Until the end of the Dark Ages, virtually all magic used by wizards and witches was what is now classified as "Dark" magic. The so-called "Light" magic was only developed at around the start of what the Muggles call the "Middle" Ages, during which they became the norm for most magical people at the time. In fact, there may be one peculiarly simple reason why the Dark Arts are so called "Dark"—it was the dominant branch of magical study during what is often termed by Muggles and wizards alike as the Dark Ages.

But—why was Light magic developed in the first place? And why did it gradually come to displace Dark magic from its primary position of use by wizards and witches?

The Dark Arts were never inherently _evil_; rather, it is inherently _dangerous_—and therein lies the difference. In order to understand this fundamental tenet, an understanding must first be made of the nature of magic itself.

Thus we arrive to the premise of magic. It is usually defined as a type of energy, a non-sentient force, that exists in plant, animals, minerals, and other individuals or species that are natural containers of a core of magical energy. Many things on the different planes of existence are affected by magic, but only the aforementioned naturally born with the magical core are able to direct that particular force toward a specific purpose.

(Side note: Once that basic tenet has been established, it becomes clear that human magic is, in fact, a biological aberration within the species _Homo sapiens_. Unlike most magical species, such as centaurs, goblins, and the like, only a small percentage of humans have the ability to direct and control their magic. Thus, the conclusion can only be that human beings are not, in truth, a "magical" species. See Chapter Six: Human Magic and Others.)

When magic first became known, there was no particular distinction between "Dark" or "Light" magic. There was only wild magic. Beings with a core of magical energy did not conduct magic; instead, their magic regularly broke free and ran rampant. At that time, wizards and witches did not yet know how to control magic; thus, some found themselves in the situation of releasing magical energy at a level which they had not learned to direct. Inevitably, the consequence was death.

(Side note: For more information on wild magic and the struggle to direct it, see Alric Aranærdin's _The Character and Natureal Essence of Wild Magic_, if a copy of this old book is available. In ancient times, wizards and witches were still just beginning to experiment with their magical cores and control it. Alric Aranærdin was one of the few fortunates who survived such experiments. He also, notably, created—or, rather, ripped—a passageway between the material and spiritual planes during his aforementioned efforts. That doorway is now guarded within the British Ministry's Department of Mysteries.)

Over the years, as those with magical cores slowly learned to direct the magic, a disturbing trend began to become evident: that the long-term practice of magic led to a regressive effect upon personalities. This was often observed as a gradual decrease in the capacity for empathy, and sometimes a lessening of their ability to recognise others as individuals. In modern times, it is identified as Dark Arts related dementia. It was in no way related to the practitioner's "intent," merely what the magic did to the practitioner; nor was it a progression towards evil, but a gradual decrease of basic "humanity," so to speak. The ones afflicted with Dark Arts related dementia were not evil; rather, they slowly lost the ability to distinguish between good and evil. As such, the magical community desisted from practicing magic for long periods of time, allowing them to live in relative peace with their Muggle neighbours. Often, if Dark Arts related dementia did result, it was the family's responsibility to restrain those who had digressed into such a state (See Chapter Two: The Imperius Curse).

After much study, it was found that the problem with the continuous occurrence of Dark Arts related dementia was that the operation of magic still continued as wild magic. The magical core was using the user.

Thus it was determined that in order to efficiently practise magic without experiencing Dark Arts related dementia, wizards and witches must in some way modify their use of magic so that the flow of magical energy would be unrestricted by human restraints: affection, love, self-determination, justice, good, and evil. Magical energy required unrestricted flow, not blocked in any way. Originally, the use of magic had eroded the human restraints that blocked its way from the core to the world outside; to prevent Dark Arts related dementia, the answer was clear: channel the magic physically, but not psychically. Direct the magic from its inner core through the body, not through the spirit and the "humanity" which was part of it. The wizard would now be required to direct the energy through his wand, not his own essential "Self" (Thus the need for wands as such.).

Once this method was adopted, the percentage of magical practitioners with Dark Arts related dementia abruptly decreased…

There were, however, a minority of magical spells that could not be refitted to reflect the new "Light" magic, and which apparently still required the underlying psychic connection to the "Self" of the caster …

Chapter Two: The Imperius Curse

… Once the advent of Dark Arts related dementia became known, steps were taken to control those unfortunately afflicted with it. Many historians and theoreticians have argued the case that the Imperius Curse was originally developed for this purpose—to restrict the unfortunates by putting them under the curse so that they would not pose a danger to the community. However, it was soon found not to be feasible, especially considering the amount of magical energy required to maintain such a curse, and the possibility of Dark Arts related dementia for the controller himself…

… Later, wizards and witches found it as a convenient way to maintain harmony in the home. If, for example, one had a Muggle neighbour, unfortunately abusive, many magical practitioners considered it more kindly to cast the Imperius on him and spare the family any such friction…

Chapter Three: The Cruciatus Curse

… Cruciatus was often seen as a useful way to separate the uninjured and unconscious from the dead, after a battle or natural catastrophe. By affecting the nerve endings of the nervous system, it manipulates the nervous system to react to what it perceives as actual pain. Even with one unconscious, the nerves automatically react, and could perhaps have shocked people into consciousness…

… For a brief period during the eighteen century, the Cruciatus was even considered therapeutic. In considering other "therapeutic" methods at the time—leeches in Europe, acupuncture in Asia—it could conceivably have been so, if it were very mild and short-lived…

… In recent years, the rise of Lord Voldemort and his Death Eaters led to their widespread use of the Cruciatus upon victims. A prominent example is that of the Longbottoms, Frank and Alice, who were tortured into insanity by the Dark Lord's followers—too much prolonged contact with the Cruciatus can drive the brain into such a state where it breaks off communication with the pain messengers and makes the mind retreat within itself, in an effort to block out the pain…

Chapter Four: The Killing Curse

With events over the past decades, the Killing Curse has taken on almost a supernatural, terrifying air about it. However, in former times, it was, perhaps, intended as a means of providing a quick, merciful death to one in pain or suffering from an incurable illness. Some historians go so far as to point out how the incantation of this particular Unforgivable is different from the Imperius and Cruciatus. The Imperius and Cruciatus incantations were evidently derived from Latin, but the Killing Curse was derived from what apparently was an Arabic or Aramaic language, which chiefly exists in North Africa, where people subsisted by desert hunting. Considering the dust and winds that obscured eyesight and hindered the use of bow and arrow, one may say that perhaps the Killing Curse wasn't even originally intended to kill people, but rather for the use of hunting and slaughterhouses…

… The Killing Curse is fatal, and no-one, except for one person, has ever been known to survive it. In 1981, the Dark Lord Voldemort attacked the Potter family at their house in Godric's Hollow. While James and Lily Potter did not live, their one-year-old son Harry survived the curse, and You-Know-Who, as he is more often called in the general vernacular, disappeared. No-one has ever been able to explain exactly why he managed to live through his encounter with the Killing Curse…

(Side note: It ought to be pointed out that the three Unforgivables are driven by emotion, which comes from the soul, the seat of the spirit, personality, and morality. The Imperius seeks to control. The Cruciatus seeks to cause pain. The Killing Curse seeks to cause death, by channeling the emotion of hate. Perhaps one reason why they are Unforgivable is that they are indeed driven by negative extremes of emotion.)…

_International Floo Mail Express, seventh of July_

Albus,

What news in England?

SS

_International Floo Mail Express, eighth of July_

Severus,

I'm glad to see that you have accepted the Defence position. Considering the fact that Horace was really rather beleaguered, I am pleased to see that you let him teach Potions.

By the way, some more rather unfortunate news. Amelia Bones was murdered at her house a few days ago. Evidently, Death Eaters broke into her house. She was killed with the Killing Curse, though not before putting up a good fight. The disarray of her house is proof of that. If only the Order could have gotten there in time!

Twelve days until you return from Johannesburg. I'm sure you must have enjoyed the convention.

Albus

_International Floo Mail Express, ninth of July_

Albus,

If only Amelia Bones had possessed the slightest modicum of intelligence necessary to have had a Portkey in hand and escape from a fight in which she was outnumbered! So very Gryffindor. Sacrifice does not necessarily mean that it will help anyone.

Never mind, Albus, I can already see your face of disapproval. I concede that perhaps that was uncalled for.

I have developed the beginnings of a possible potions thesis with Wang Qin and her daughter and assistant, Ming-yue. I'm sure you must have heard of her—you once did some study in alchemy with Nicolas Flamel, after all, and she is a prominent figure in the potions and alchemy fields. It involves a potential adjustment to the Wolfsbane potion, but I will not be disclosing any particular details as of yet. It is still in the tentative stages. I will be speaking to Remus Lupin when I return to England.

SS

_Excerpt from a conversation: Severus Snape, Wang Qin, and Ming-yue, tenth of July_

WQ: As a result of the regular use of the Wolfsbane potion, the lycanthropy seems to have developed a resistance to it.

MY: Similar to that of Muggle antibiotics, penicillin and the like. If you would please hand me that jar, Professor—

SS: The shrivelfigs?

MY: Yes. I'm brewing a potion, of course, don't you see?

SS: What an astute observation, undoubtedly.

WQ: Astute or not, I would prefer, Ming-yue, that you not speak in such a sarcastic way to your elders. Do you not remember what Kong Fu-zi said? "A young man's duty is to be filial to his parents at home and respectful to his elders abroad." Perhaps you are female, but it is certainly no excuse for that retort. Apologise to the Professor.

MY: My apologies, Professor.

SS: I accept the apology. Those young idiots at my school have never had the same respect for teachers that you do.

MY: Thank you. We pride ourselves upon our respect. Even if we disagree with our elders, we still do so respectfully.

WQ: All right, Ming-yue, no more of that right now. Professor, do you know exactly when the first record of a werewolf was made?

SS: I… have never had much incentive to research that. However, I do believe the British Ministry's Werewolf Registry has a complete list of present-day—

WQ: No. Not the werewolves who live today, but those who were the earliest. I sometimes feel—well, I _can _see that the lycanthropy has a "soul" of its own, but it's warped and utterly bereft of any such compassion or morality. I have been contemplating that it perhaps was a result of… Professor, you are familiar with the Dark Arts and the difference between that and Light magic?

SS: I am.

WQ: Well, I'm sure that you are aware of Norman's postulations in his books _Origins of Magic_ and _History of the Unforgivables_. Alistair Norman—Norman wrote that Dark Arts related dementia came about as a result of periodically practising one's magic during the old times, because the flow of energy from the wizard's magical core, being psychic, was eroding the human restraints in the spirits—

SS: Yes, I remember that. And so quite a few wizards and witches were experimenting with ways to change that so that they could use their magic without having to risk Dark Arts related dementia. You said that lycanthropy was a twisted soul, without morality—

WQ: I was thinking that maybe lycanthropy arose as a result of those experiments. Alric Aranærdin inadvertently created a doorway between the material and spiritual planes, and I have heard that those who go beyond it die and pass on. And that came from his experiments to work with wild magic. What if, during the time when they worked with Dark magic, some idiot warped it so badly that it _emerged_ from the research that way?

SS: Wang Qin, allow me to be sure I have heard your words correctly? Are you saying that the lycanthropic minds are actually former human souls destroyed by the dementia?

WQ: I am not saying, as such. Merely theorising. Human souls changed by the dementia to have no awareness of morality or other individuals' rights, then perhaps tainted by something that caused people with it to turn into wolves, for some reason.

SS: I must admit, it is a highly plausible theory.

MY: Not to mention, sir, a horrific one.

_British Ministry, Department of Magical Law Enforcement memo, eleventh of July_

TO: Kingsley Shacklebolt, Senior Auror

FROM: Rufus Scrimgeour, Minister of Magic

SUBJECT: Increased security at Azkaban

Auror Shacklebolt, please report to my office at two this afternoon for a briefing of the situation at Azkaban.

As the senior Auror in charge of the Black manhunt, I am assured that you have experience with the workings of Azkaban, and as such would like to consult you on increasing security at Azkaban. Now that the Dementors are gone, the prison must have some means of protection from the Death Eaters and the forces of the Dark Lord Voldemort. I will expect a full report.

_Excerpt from a conversation: Sirius Black and Remus Lupin, twelfth of July_

SB: What was Kingsley here for? He looked in a hurry.

RL: I think it was something about Azkaban. Security, I think. They're putting more Aurors at Azkaban, what with the Dementors' defection.

SB: Defection? _Defection_? Moony, you're a smart man, but look here, the Dementors weren't ever on our side. They were just biding their time and waiting for Voldemort to come back so they could suck the souls out of everyone with their Kiss!

RL: Sirius—

SB: And Merlin, where'd the Ministry come up with a name like the Kiss? Sure, the Dementors love you—love your happy memories, love to make you miserable as a flea, take your soul out and eat it all up!

RL: Sirius. The Dementors aren't coming anytime soon for us.

SB: Yeah, because they went for Harry last year, and I couldn't even go and help him.

RL: Don't you even start up again, Padfoot. You think you can't do anything by sitting in this place—

SB: This isn't a place, it's a damn prison—!

RL: I don't care, you will stay here and stay alive, Harry loves you, and if you go off and get yourself killed, then what will he think? Merlin, Sirius, don't think about being here, think about Harry and how he wants you alive and your name cleared! Think about why you need to stay here and stay alive!

SB: … I know, Moony. Sure. It's just—I want to _do_ something.

RL: Well then, you can start by helping me to clean up this place and make it nicer—Harry's coming in five days.

SB: He's—oh, for the love of Merlin, _only five days_! Moony, where's the broom?

_International Floo Mail Express, fourteenth of July_

My dear Yan-shui,

I hope that you are feeling better after that bout of foolishness with the nightshade. Surely you are very ashamed of your recklessness now—but I am glad to hear you are well. Ming-yue is happy at the convention; we are working on a theory for lycanthropy with Hogwarts Professor Severus Snape right now, and I believe that we really have uncovered what is actually the essence of lycanthropy. As for now, I shall not say more in this letter.

Make sure that all the copies of the recipe for the potion—you know which one—have been burned. I dare not take chances with it; it already places a heavy burden upon my heart, to have what I have, and it would ruin people that had it as well. Though not me yet, because I have Ming-yue, and I have you. Six more days, and the convention will be done.

Love,

Wang Qin

_Excerpt from a conversation: Severus Snape and a store owner, sixteenth of July_

SS: What is the best one that you have in the store?

SO: Ah, that'd be this one here. Two thousand five hundred rands, it is, but it's definitely worth it. A semiautomatic handgun, very efficient.

SS: In that case, thank you very much. I'll take that, and here is the money. I ask that you don't speak of this to anyone.

SO: Oh, certainly, I won't, sir.

SS: Perhaps you won't, but words are just words. _Obliviate_.

_International Floo Mail Express, seventeenth of July_

Albus,

I will be coming back to Hogwarts the afternoon of the twentieth by Portkey.

SS

_Letter delivered to the Strildom Hotel, nineteenth of July_

Professor Severus Snape,

Your request for a non-stop Portkey to the United Kingdom has been approved. Please come to the Portkey Office in the Department of Transportation to retrieve your Portkey.

Starting point: Johannesburg, South Africa

Terminus: Hogsmeade, Scotland

Date: The twentieth of July

We hope that you will have a pleasant day.

Sincerely,

P. W. Klerk

Head of the South African Department of Magical Transportation

**oOo**

The International Floo Mail Express is my own creation. I assume that owls and other birds are used within a country's borders, because international flying might be too much for them (certainly for Errol!). Floo Mail would be like a letter put in a protective casing and flooed to the recipient. Snape's letters to Lupin are sent to Dumbledore to be passed on; otherwise, the Fidelius on Grimmauld Place would ignore the letters.

If any readers are confused as to what Snape is referring to by his statement that he was only meant to stay at Hogwarts for one year, see Red Hen Publications's essay "Loyaulte Me Lie" for a more in-depth explanation.

"Freosan" is Old English for "freeze." "Fyr" is Old English for "fire."

Alistair Norman's _History of the Unforgivables_ is my own creation, although many of the theories in the "excerpts" are derived from Red Hen Publications's essay "History of Magic." Some premises are similar, some are not.

The mention of the Scholomance School is a nod to Nineveh's Black fics at FictionAlley. As for Alric Aranærdin's passageway—I'm sure anyone can guess what that passageway is (whispers quietly, "Department of Mysteries"). The Confucius quote is from the _Analects_. And the lycanthropy theory is all spun out of my mind.

Please review!

Talriga


	5. Chapter 5

See Ch. 1 for disclaimer.

**Chapter 5**

Severus stared into the glassy depths of the mirror. His reflection looked back at him, sharply scrutinising his appearance. South Africa had changed him in some ways, he thought; he now more or less looked more like the older time-traveling Severus than the younger one. His skin was no longer the sallow paleness he had acquired from years in the dungeons brewing potions; the fierce African sun, having beat down upon him for a month, had made his skin several shades tanner, tight across his angular cheekbones. He had also cut his hair short, like before; he knew that Albus would be surprised, and his new look would be remarked upon, and his bright blue eyes would twinkle. His shoulders felt curiously bare without his normal shoulder-length straight black hair; it had been trimmed neatly, but Severus also knew, from his years of experience, that his short hair was easier to deal with when fighting, as it was not prone to fall into his eyes. He brushed away a strand of dark hair from his forehead, and turned away from the looking-glass, catching a last glimpse of his sharp dark eyes.

He exited the men's bathroom, leaving the Hogsmeade travel office. The muted afternoon sun cast its kindly rays upon the street, people coming in and out of shops. Severus was tired from travelling.

_It's good to have you back_, Hogwarts commented, nearly startling him. But he betrayed no sign of his surprise; instead, he clutched at the handle of his trunk more tightly. _Quite a lot of events have been happening_.

_Well, of course they happen_, was Severus's sarcastic reply, as he ducked into the Three Broomsticks and made his way up to the counter. Madam Rosmerta came over, smiling generously at him; it was evident that she didn't recognise him, and he felt inexplicably amused at her obliviousness. "Hello, what can I get for you, sir?"

"Chilled butterbeer," Severus said, pulling out a few coins and laying them on the counter. Rosmerta palmed the coins and went off to get his order.

_More events than usual_, said Hogwarts. _Albus left Hogwarts for a while; he went off to retrieve something. I've been watching—he's been waiting for you to return, so he can destroy an object_.

Even before Severus asked the question, he already knew the answer. _What object_?

_It's a ring_, the castle replied. _A small silver ring. He probably would have destroyed it already, but I think that there are many spells upon the ring, so he decided to wait for you so you can help him with the enchantments. It feels dark, very dark_.

The Gaunt ring. A faint scowl appeared on Severus's face, and he stared at the counter, only to have his inward annoyance interrupted by the arrival of his butterbeer, which Rosmerta placed cheerfully in front of him. He muttered some perfunctory word of thanks, and turned his thoughts inward, ignoring the quiet murmurs and chatter in the pub. _So Albus has found fit to begin retrieving Horcruxes. I wonder why he didn't do so earlier_.

_Soul magic? That must be why I feel ill_, said Hogwarts. _I can feel the magic. It's so dark, and so twisted_. Then the castle fell silent.

_I would expect nothing less from the Dark Lord_, replied Severus. But Hogwarts didn't say anything, having retreated back into the great magical stony building that was a magical school.

He heard the door to the Three Broomsticks open and close. He sent out a tendril of his magic, snaking out in the direction of the entrance to see who had entered. But then he didn't need to, because the next few words told him exactly who it was.

"My word! Remus Lupin," Rosmerta exclaimed, hurrying forward as the werewolf sat down at the counter. Severus turned his head ever so slightly as he sat ramrod straight on his stool, still sipping at his drink and discreetly observing. The werewolf looked somewhat healthier than his memories of Lupin, and Severus realised with a faint note of surprise that it was because he was, at least compared to his _other_ memories—those of when Lupin had sat at the table in 12 Grimmauld Place after Black's death and stared into the flames of the flickering fire, the light playing across his greying hair. Times when Lupin had said to Severus some inane sentences, some fragments of conversation, as though to make up for the gaping hole, the absence of his last schoolboy friend from his life. To which he remembered, he had always replied with an insult and a sneer.

And then he had died in the war, of silver poisoning.

Lupin exchanged pleasantries with Rosmerta. Severus suddenly felt the butterbeer in his mouth turn flat and unpalatable. He set the glass down on the counter and stood up, an urge to leave churning in himself. As he passed by Lupin, the werewolf momentarily frowned, as though something had caught his attention (_probably my scent_), and then Severus was outside and striding down the street toward Hogwarts.

He knew why he felt this way. It was because in Johannesburg, in South Africa, a city in a country far away from England where the Dark Lord had never even so much as touched them in the shadows, he had forgotten, fleetingly, that ominous events were going on in his home country. Even now, Draco Malfoy was thinking with fear about his assigned task; even now, Albus was examining the Gaunt ring; even now, the Dark Lord was laying out his plans, coolly and unemotionally, planning to kill Albus, kill Black, kill Potter and kill the life and spirit and soul of the wizarding world and leave a shell of a _thing_ behind him…

He cut off his train of thought, pushing it neatly into his pools of quicksilver, and instead pulled out a cigarette. He lit it with a small match, the red phosphorus head bursting into a small flame, which flared its way to the tip of his cigarette. He put it to his lips, and tried not to think about his memories, his dead, horrible memories that, if he dwelled on it too much, might drive him mad with anger and grief and shame.

**oOo**

Minerva sighed and took off her spectacles, rubbing wearily at her eyes. She was supervising the sending of Hogwarts letters to students, and it was no easy task. She murmured a quiet "Halt" to her self-moving quill, which obligingly did so. Perhaps she could do the remainder of the letters tomorrow. Certainly, she felt like she needed some rest, and there was an Order meeting that night at Grimmauld Place. Voldemort was striking more often, and they needed to plan, and Albus was closed off in his office, working on something he refused to talk about.

She rose from her desk, walked around it and opened the door. Stepping out into the corridor, she locked the door with a whispered incantation, and then she walked toward the Great Hall; most of the professors spent their time in the great entrance hall instead of closeted in their offices.

When she came into the Great Hall, her colleagues, almost all of whom were there, raised their heads. Astraea Sinistra smiled broadly at her and gestured to an empty seat. "Minerva! Glad to see you've finally got your head out of the paperwork."

"So am I," said Minerva as she took the proffered seat. All the others were there, except for Albus, Pomona Sprout, Rubeus Hagrid (undoubtedly outside on the grounds), Sibyl Trelawney, Firenze the centaur, Poppy Pomfrey in the infirmary, the ghost of Harold Binns, and Severus, who would be returning from his potions convention soon sometime; she had forgotten the exact date when. "Where's Pomona?"

"In her greenhouse, of course," squeaked Filius Flitwick. "Trying to coax some of her Ocram Pods to grow. Evidently, they've been feeling rather poorly lately."

"Which isn't so pleasant for me," Horace Slughorn continued. "I asked her if she could get some of the Ocram Pods for me—for my classes."

"Which potion?" asked Xiomara Hooch, and a cheerful conversation ensured over the Felix Felicis Potion.

Minerva was still a little unused to having Horace back, after so many years. He had retired a year before Voldemort's defeat, and Severus, in his own insulting, sardonic way, had taken his place. Severus must have been surprised to get the Defence position—good Merlin, Minerva had, at least ("Albus! What about that supposed jinx?").

But she liked Horace. He _did_ tend toward the patronage system and the old political cronyism and the usual _noblesse oblige_, but that was to be expected. Slytherin produced a lot of politicians and power brokers, after all; their ambition was a driving force. In fact, now that she thought of it, Severus might even be an oddball, of sorts. Certainly, his lone operator style fit more the Gryffindor than the Slytherin. She imagined her saying that to Severus, imagined his no doubt indignant response, and stifled the urge to giggle.

Except he was a spy, and had to operate all alone.

Horace, on the other hand—Minerva stole a glance at her former, now returned, colleague out of the corner of her eye. He had always been a bit of an opportunist, she had to admit: vain, glib, and a flatterer. But he wasn't bigoted about blood purity—Lily Evans had been one of his favourite potions students long ago, and he trusted Albus with his life. She had pieced together his life for the past year from some of Albus's comments, and knew that Horace had, upon hearing of Voldemort's return, promptly left his home (which, she knew, must have been a highly comfortable one) and went into hiding. Which, considering Horace's general attitude toward comfort, must have been a huge sacrifice for him.

And he was a good, pleasant conversationalist, most notably unlike Severus, who was the master of sarcasm and wit, the broadsword and the rapier both.

"I was thinking of starting up my old club again," he was saying rather animatedly to Magna Vector. Minerva broke in. "You mean the Slug Club?"

"Yes, indeed, Minerva. It was such a success during my time, I was rather disappointed when Severus failed to carry it over during his term."

"Though you can't say you were surprised," Minerva pointed out. "Severus is hardly the type of person who throws parties every week or so. Unlike you, Horace."

"True, true. What are the students like right now, Filius? Attitudes change with the times, you know."

All the older teachers who had known Horace before exchanged knowing glances. Filius squeaked, "Well, what with You-Know-Who's return, everything is so tense, of course, but I think they're doing well overall. Would you believe Hermione Granger asked me for more extra credit, again?"

"Granger…" Horace mused, evidently trying to think if the student being mentioned was related to anyone he knew. Minerva said, to dispel his slight confusion, "Oh, Miss Granger's Muggle-born. Not related to the other Grangers."

"I see. You say she's bright?"

"Extraordinarily so. Of course, right now she does still have a bit of a conventional mind, not exactly the most inventive—she reads all the books and thinks she knows everything. But she _is_ smart," said Minerva.

"Smart?" said Horace almost wistfully. "She does sound interesting. But you know, though, Lily Evans was the amazing one, back then. Her and Severus Snape both, absolutely brilliant in Potions and whatever they put their mind to. Could've been the Potions geniuses of the time, but then You-Know-Who killed Lily and Severus came here. I wonder why he hasn't gone to a research institute—it'd certainly be better for him than here. I'm afraid he hasn't got much patience for students. Truth be told, he never had much patience even for me."

The professors all laughed. "That's the understatement of the year," said Magna. "He has absolutely no tolerance for the students' shenanigans. I pity poor Neville Longbottom. I'll wager ten Galleons Longbottom won't be taking Potions this year."

"I'll take that bet," Xiomara said enthusiastically. "You forget, Magna, he also loves Herbology, and he _will_ need some work in NEWT-level potions to become an Herbologist."

"So will Potter," said Minerva, suddenly remembering her promise to the black-haired boy that she would help him become an Auror, no matter what. And Minerva McGonagall always kept her word. "He wants to be an Auror—"

"No surprise there," chuckled Filius.

"—but he's not so good at Potions, and he does need the NEWT-level class…"

"I have no problem with either of them coming into NEWT-level Potions," said Horace cheerfully. "I remember Frank Longbottom, such a kind lad. And Harry Potter should have at least inherited _some_ of Lily Evans's talent. I take those with Exceeds Expectations on the OWLS, you know."

Astraea said rather tiredly, "I only wish Astronomy held the same interest as your regular classes. Parvati Patil and Lavender Brown are taking it, but only because they still believe that their destinies can be read in the stars. Maybe centaurs can do it, but not _us_. Really, Sibyl does tend to fill their heads with that kind of stuff, it's so unbearably annoying."

"You can say that again," Minerva replied. " 'Oh dear, it is the Grim! You will die from paint fumes, you will be crushed by a falling bookcase!'" She mimed Sibyl's usual actions. "More like she'll drink herself to death with sherry."

A great deal of merriment made its way around the table. "I don't even know why Albus hired her," continued Minerva. "I mean, Hermione Granger even stormed out of the class in frustration. That's a scene I would have liked to see, though I really don't blame her for doing so."

"People these days," sighed Magna. "The quality is declining. Look at the Defence position and that _jinx_, for instance. Jeannette Harlow was all right, but then she went off to be married. And then Slatero Quirrell died at the end of the year, which _really_ isn't encouraging for any applicants."

Minerva tried not to shiver, remembering how Albus, his voice calm and implacable, had told her how Slatero Quirrell's body had simply crumbled into dust beneath Harry Potter's touch. _Because of his mother's love_, he had said.

That was something Minerva had to confess she didn't quite understand. Lily Evans Potter was only one of many who had pleaded for their children's lives. What had made her different from the others?

Xiomara nodded, added, "You remember, four years ago, when that idiot Lockhart was here? Those valentines!"

"Don't," said Minerva, "even _remind_ me of that fraud. He tried to Obliviate two of my students, and he deserved to have it backfire on himself. Daring to go around and take the credit for things other people did—I'm absolutely ashamed that he was a Gryffindor when he was young. Really, he couldn't even deal with Devil's Snare at school! Why everyone was taken in by him…" she trailed off and sighed.

Paulina Scrivener, the Ancient Runes professor, finally looked up from where she had been engrossed in reading _The_ _Lay of Rh'kap-wah_. "Gilderoy Lockhart? Oh, _him_. He claimed he could read any type of rune without any effort at all. A load of rubbish, of course." She snorted, and returned to her reading.

"Well, at least Remus Lupin was all right," said Xiomara. "Good with the children. But then he had to leave."

Horace blinked. "I think I heard about that, some years back. Didn't he turn out to be a werewolf? Very bad business, that is. I do feel sorry for him, he was a very capable student in school. I wonder where he was bitten, probably travelling somewhere in Romania or the like—vampires and werewolves are common out there, you know."

Minerva and Filius exchanged a secretive glance. No-one else, evidently, knew that Remus had been a werewolf even when he had been at school as a student.

"And then Alastor Moody taught for a year," said Magna. "Nice chap, even if he was a tad bit paranoid. I will never, ever forget Draco Malfoy, the unfortunate boy." But even though her words were sympathetic, the look of pure amusement on her face certainly wasn't.

"You mean when Alastor Transfigured him into a white ferret?" asked Minerva. _What would you think, Magna_, she asked silently, _if you knew Alastor Moody _wasn't_ Alastor Moody, and was a Death Eater bent on bringing You-Know-Who back and plunging the wizarding world into war_? "I was absolutely shocked at his behaviour. Quite unbecoming of a teacher." _And of a retired Auror, but he wasn't an Auror, he was Barty Crouch Junior, and he as good as killed Cedric Diggory. Dear Cedric Diggory_.

"Not half so bad as _Umbridge_," said Filius darkly, small wizened face stormy with the memories of injustices done and authoritarianism gone beyond control over a year, in which the others had fumed and glared and grudgingly could not do anything, and now a rumble of anger rolled around the table as those memories surfaced once again. Horace Slughorn, who had been somewhat out of touch over the past year, said politely and inquiringly, "Umbridge? Dolores Umbridge?" But even he seemed to sense the hostility toward the woman, and the name itself.

"Giving us wizards and witches a bad name. Her and her educational decrees," muttered Astraea. "Merlin, her and Fudge. Those idiots, the lot of them. Her and her stupid braying about half-breeds—ha! I could show her a thing or two about people with half a mind, pull her up to the mirror and shove her ugly toad face in it."

Minerva shook her head. "She was a bigoted woman," she said flatly, "but she wasn't ever an idiot. Fudge was the unlucky one, having an Undersecretary like that spilling poison into his brain. Merlin, what an absolutely rabid extremist she was! I nearly cheered when I heard she got sent off to that sanatorium in Dubrovnik, Dolores Umbridge was."

"More like Um_b_—"

"Xiomara!" Minerva said.

Xiomara Hooch, who was the second youngest member of the faculty, and unlike Severus had no qualms about cursing, or, for that matter, any reservations about freely speaking at all, said with a toss of her greying head and a flash of her yellow hawklike eyes, "Oh, don't act the prude, Minerva. You'd say the same thing about her if you could."

Minerva ignored Xiomara's comment. Instead, she decided to strike the more optimistic tone. "Well, at least we all know Severus will do his best," she remarked. "Certainly, he'll be better than most of the others we've had."

A low voice, disturbingly soft and yet at the same time edged with steely hardness, said, "Really now, Minerva, I don't think that's a particularly great feat to be better than my predecessors, considering their absolute ineptitude. _Do_ try to have more faith in me than that."

Minerva let out a half-gasp of surprise and whirled around. Severus stood behind her, one hand shoved into the pockets of his robes, the other holding the handle of his trunk. "Severus! When did you get back from Johannesburg!"

"Just now," said Severus, sitting down next to her. Filius said, "Did you have a good time, Severus?"

"Good? I don't know. Interesting, yes. I have a new project to work on. Professor Slughorn," he said rather formally to his former teacher, "I will probably be using some of the Potions labs this year, if you don't mind."

"Not at all, Severus. By all means, do so. It will be my pleasure."

The others were mostly silent, all of them looking at Severus in one way or another. Minerva herself was a little surprised at the way he had appeared, wraithlike and silent, so that none of them had even noticed his arrival. He didn't even look much like his old self—South Africa had tanned his skin, his hair dry and now cut short (still black, of course, but when had he cut his hair before?). But his once surly face had turned calm and smooth, vaguely weary but lacking bitterness. The angry lines etched into his face had faded. And his eyes, black as night—they held a hint of knowledge, of depths beyond and within the mind, guarding his close secrets and the years of life lived to acquire them. It was as though there was no uncertainty; he knew what he wanted to do.

_No_, realised Minerva suddenly. _He was that way even before he left for Johannesburg, it's just that I didn't notice it before. He changed…_ she involuntarily furrowed her eyebrows, but could not remember when the "change" had occurred. _He's changed. But for better or for worse_?

And the answer came to her, all at once surprising and yet expected. _I don't know. I don't know at all_.

**oOo**

"Ow!" A swirling cloud of dust lifted into the air. "These bloody cabinets, stupid bloody cabinets!"

"Ron," Hermione said in resignation. "Here, let me help you—" She tugged at Ron's right arm and pulled him out from under a pile of trinkets that had fallen on his head. "You're lucky the cabinet didn't actually crush you, you know. Just the stuff on it."

"Wow, that makes me feel _so_ much better, Hermione."

"Oh, shut it, Ron," Ginny Weasley yelled from across the room. "Sarcasm doesn't suit you." She was sprawled in a large comfy armchair, her legs flung over the chair's arms and her left hand trailing the carpeted floor as she flipped a page in her book. The firelight from the great stone fireplace danced in a cheerful golden red aureole around her head.

"Merlin, I'm sorry, a Bat-Bogey Hex?"

Harry grinned at Ron. "Wrong side of the bed this morning, mate?" he asked, and popped another Chocolate Frog into his mouth.

"Only Fred and George sneaking a Slimy Serpent Slinker into my bed," grumbled Ron.

Harry laughed. Ginny had already told him what had happened with that. Ron had woken up and started screaming so loudly that everyone in the Burrow had heard and come running. When they realised what was actually in his bed…

Needless to say, Fred and George had had a wild morning.

12 Grimmauld Place was a much cheerier place than it had been the year before. Ron, Ginny, and Hermione had come over for a visit, and they had spent the entire day exploring the attic. Of course Sirius and Remus Lupin had insisted upon coming with them—"In case there's anything unpleasant my dear ugly mum left behind for us," was Sirius's statement—but they had had an uproarious time once they found some ancient articles of clothing from across the many centuries. Hermione had vehemently rejected the corsets ("They're so tight, I'll suffocate!"), and they now knew that Sirius looked especially ridiculous in a white cravat. Ginny had found a large floppy brimmed hat, with a myriad of elaborate ribbons and beads decorating it, and she had pulled it over Lupin's head in fun. Harry had discovered a glistening silver and diamond tiara, which Ron had in awe informed him was goblin-wrought. "Just like my Great-Aunt Muriel's…" Sirius had given it to Hermione, saying she might as well have it. Hermione said she thought she might give it to her mother.

"I wish they would let us in on the Order meeting," said Ginny suddenly, closing her book with a snap and arranging herself in the armchair so she was facing the rest of them. "We're old enough to know what's going on."

"Well, maybe it's best for us not to know," said Hermione, standing in front of the bookcase and perusing the titles leisurely. "I mean, you know about Legilimency, anyone might be able to glean information."

"What about the other members of the Order?" asked Harry challengingly. "Those that don't know Occlumency."

"Then they're in no position to be exposed to it, like Mr and Mrs Weasley and Sirius. You know, Harry, you'll need to start your Occlumency lessons again soon."

Harry's eyes darkened. "With Snape?"

"Well, maybe you could talk to Dumbledore. Have him teach you instead of Snape. But you need to learn Occlumency, Harry. Don't you remember that Voldemort tried to trick you into going to the Ministry by sending you false visions? You'll have to block them."

"I know," Harry said in a moody tone. "I just don't like facing Snape, that's all." Ron shot him a sympathetic glance.

Then they heard the murmurs, growing louder from the kitchen. Ron got up and went to the door, opening it. "The meeting's over," he said. "Harry, maybe you can talk to Dumbledore while he's still here."

Harry leapt from his chair and looked down the corridor, Hermione, Ron, and Ginny next to him. The Order members were beginning to come out of the kitchen and disperse to their respective abodes. Quickly, Harry and the others walked past the ones already leaving and into the kitchen, hoping to see Dumbledore.

Albus Dumbledore was indeed still there, and speaking to Mr and Mrs Weasley, while others were chatting and drinking cups of tea. "Perhaps you should ask Bill," he was saying. "He is a Gringotts cursebreaker, maybe he and Remus could help set up some more wards around the Burrow, just in case."

"Professor Dumbledore?" Harry asked hesitantly.

Dumbledore turned to look at him. "Hello, Harry, how are you?" His blue eyes twinkled at him.

"I was wondering if I could speak to you for a moment," Harry said. "About—um…"

Dumbledore obviously sensed Harry's slight discomfort, because he said to the Weasleys, "I do hope that you will think about it of course, it's best to be safer than sorry," and then he gestured for Harry to step into one of the corners of the room. "What is it?"

"Um, about the Occlumency lessons, sir," Harry began. "I don't really want to have them with Snape again."

Dumbledore smiled at him. "Harry, I wasn't planning to," he said quietly. "Originally I hoped that the two of you could have worked together, but I see it didn't happen. I'll be teaching you, Harry, over the year. Occlumency, and," he lowered his voice, "also something that may help you against Voldemort." And he smiled over his half moon spectacles.

Harry was suddenly feeling rather warm with happiness. No lessons with Snape… and he would be able to start working against Voldemort in earnest! "Yes, sir," he said, a little rushed in his words. "Thank you, sir."

"No need to thank me, Harry," Dumbledore said kindly. "I am only telling you what I should have told you years ago." And for a fleeting moment, his voice grew darker, and not as cheerful as it normally was.

**oOo**

Albus had told him he might be held up by a few other matters at the meeting, and so told Severus he could leave early and wait in his office (after raising an amused eyebrow at Severus's appearance)—there were things he needed to tell him, Albus had said. Severus hadn't contributed anything to the meeting, just stood in the corner and listened and then left early. Severus had a very good idea of what those things to be told were; wondering if he should yell at Albus for going off and retrieving a Horcrux by himself (and then he realised that would be a very hypocritical action, considering his own plans), he instead poured a cup of tea for himself. As he was sipping at the scalding liquid, the fire flared green and Albus stepped out of the flames, his pointed hat slightly askew. "Lo, Severus," he said amiably. "Would you mind pouring a cuppa for me as well?"

Wordlessly, Severus made a gesture with his wand, moving it to the side before abruptly flicking it down. The flowery porcelain teapot, hovering in mid air, tilted and poured tea into another cup. Then the cup floated over to Albus, who took it and settled down in another armchair next to Severus's. Severus did not miss the concerned look Albus gave him. "I hope you're doing well, Severus," said Albus after a momentary silence.

"Hmm," replied Severus. "Don't bother with the pleasantries, Albus, what is it?"

Albus sighed. "All right, then. About a week ago, I went to the Gaunt house to retrieve the Gaunt ring."

"You mean the Gaunt _hovel_, yes." Although Severus already knew the answer to his next question, he asked it anyway, because Hogwarts had informed him and not Albus, and thus Albus would expect him to ask it: "Have you already destroyed the Horcrux in the ring?"

Albus shook his head. "Not yet," he said. "I was waiting for you to get back. Now we can work on it together."

"Right now?" Severus swiveled his head around to look more closely at Albus, whose bright blue eyes looked back. "Where's the ring?"

Albus got up from his chair and walked over to a chest. With a murmured incantation, the lock clicked; the lid raised itself up. Albus reached in and brought out a small box. Severus nearly hissed at the twisted _magic_ (_No, it doesn't deserve that name, merlin it's filthy and horrible_); although he could now control his excess magical energy, it did not prevent him from having an acute sensitivity to magic around him. Albus turned to look at Severus when he heard the intake of breath. "Something wrong, Severus?"

Severus closed his eyes so he wouldn't have to look at Albus and see the soft concern in his eyes. Instead, he said, his voice slightly strangled, "How do you want to destroy it, Albus?"

Albus was silent for a moment. When Severus opened his eyes again, Albus was sitting in his chair again, the box open, the Gaunt ring flashing in the light. Even the glint seemed dark and malicious, if it were possible for an inanimate object to do so. _But this is no ordinary object_.

_I want it gone_, said Hogwarts sulkily. _I want it gone. Get rid of it, and get it away from my children. I want it _out _of here_.

Albus said quietly, "I've been picking at the wards on the ring. When the last one is gone, all the defensive safeguards Tom put on there will spring into action. Try and lash back at us. If you can help with a shield while I destroy the Horcrux—"

"I can do that," Severus said automatically. It had been much the same, the other time. Only Albus had tried by himself, and had lost the use of one of his hands as a result; Severus's potions had barely saved it. "I can do it."

Albus nodded. He stood up, motioning for Severus to do the same. "Where will we do it?" Severus asked.

_The safe room_, said Hogwarts.

"The safe room," Albus replied.

_Oh. I should have known_. The safe room, as they simply called it, was a bare room with nothing in it except a cold fireplace full of ashes and a square table tucked into the corner with two chairs. Severus was aware that Albus had done some experiments with alchemy in the past, Nicolas Flamel's aid helping as well. He hadn't used it in a while, though.

Albus walked up to one of the office's walls, and pressed his hand against it. "Open Sesame," he said, and the wall shimmered and revealed a sturdy door. Severus resisted the urge to roll his eyes at Albus's password. He followed Albus through the door and closed it tightly behind him, sealing it to be sure. "What type of protections did the Dark Lord put on the Horcrux?" he asked Albus. Then he flicked his wand at the fireplace and a fire sprang to life, casting its warming heat upon them.

"A lot of runes and quite a few nasty spells," said Albus. "But considering him, that is to be expected."

Severus snorted. Albus walked to the center of the room and turned the box over. The Gaunt ring clattered out of the box onto the floor, making a _clink clink clink_ as it clattered, silver and shadows combined together. They both stared at the ring for a moment, frozen as they stared at a fragment of a soul, a torn, destroyed soul; and then they both blinked, and once again came to life. Albus moved forward and knelt down, murmuring, "_Revealo_," and glowing wards around the ring appeared, blazing defiantly at them, challenging and taunting them (_how dare you try and bring me down!_). Severus stepped back, bringing up his magic, ready to step in when needed.

Albus moved his wand negligently, and the glow faded slightly, leaving only runes written around the ring in a ball of smouldering light. The aged wizard squinted at the runes through his glasses, and Severus strained to read them. "Not bothering to conceal his purpose, was he?" Severus murmured. "Those runes are Aramaic, aren't they?"

"A bit of that, yes. Also I believe I recognise some Old and Middle English." Albus muttered something under his breath, and another layer of runes appeared underneath the ones they had seen. "And some more, evidently. I wonder how many more…"

Five minutes later, they were giving each other exasperated looks as Albus reached the seventh layer. "Sanskrit," Albus said, standing up. He repeated the charm again, and nothing more appeared.

"Don't you notice something about the number?" asked Severus. "Seven layers, seven pieces of his soul. The Dark Lord seems to like everything to be neat and tidy. Well, except for the killing and torture part."

"Yes, well," Albus looked almost annoyed, a rare expression on the headmaster's face. "He could've been kind and spared us the trouble of this all in the first place."

"When is he ever kind, Albus?"

"An unfortunate point to you, Severus. Let's start with the first layer, shall we?"

Severus stared at the Aramaic runes. "All right, the first one's 'invincible.' Be careful, Albus."

"I shall be as careful as I can be," said Albus. He reached out with his right hand and touched the glowing rune with his forefinger. Then he slowly passed it over the others, murmuring the translations to himself. He finally stopped over a rune, elaborately made. "I think the keystone is this one," he said.

"What is it?"

" 'Life.'"

Severus made a sound of disgust. "What a life he has. Are all the others tied into this 'life' rune?"

"I think so—check for me, Severus."

Severus moved forward, and Albus moved back. Severus knelt down on the ground and stared fixedly at the runes. But he didn't try to touch it. Instead, slowly, carefully, painstakingly, he let his magic spread toward the runes, making sure Albus wouldn't feel it, inspecting the runes and letting the carvings lie smoothly on his streams of controlled magic. If he wasn't careful, his magic would become tangible, something to be seen, and then what could he say to Albus but tell him the truth? But he wasn't going to tell Albus; he would not let Albus know that he had killed him, once upon a time that was no more.

His magic curiously licked at the runes. The one labeled "life" felt larger than the rest, a myriad of magical strands spreading from it. He warily followed each strand to each rune, feeling and matching them up, checking and rechecking them. To Albus Dumbledore, it looked nothing more than his long time friend and confidant squinting at the runes, but for Severus, his magic flowed around the runes, and shuddered at the darkness.

He stood up. "Yes, I think it's that one too," he said, and tried not to instinctively move away. "If we start with that—"

"Yes, that'll work," Albus said softly. "Here—" And a tendril of white light spiraled out of the tip of his raised wand, gently snaking toward the life rune. It ever so slightly pried under the rune, and with more prodding, the rune broke free. It seemed to float away from the ring and into the air, bringing the others along with it. Severus hastily cast a Containment charm, catching the line of runes in a box of magic, enclosing them and squeezing them together. For a moment, the runes seemed to let out a last gasp—they gleamed more brightly than ever—and suddenly the glow vanished, and they dissipated into the air.

The process was repeated several more times. When they got to the last layer of Sanskrit runes, Albus paused and looked at Severus. "Ready?" he asked. "Tom's precautions and curses should begin to manifest right after we destroy the last set of runes."

"Quite ready," said Severus, and brought up his magic, still shielded from Albus. It hovered, ready, a blaze of gloriously burning black fire. And Albus pulled at the last set of runes, and they flew from the ring, and the world—

_The world is dark._

_A wave of mindless, irrational anger and fear and rage sweeps over them. He runs over next to his friend, but the darkness screams defiance at them, eager to devour them first before they destroy it. Albus reaches toward the ring, but Severus grabs his hand and holds it back, because he remembers what happened once to the hand. No, he says. Don't._

_Then the black abyss comes, and Severus—_

_He stands, alone. It is the Great Hall, and, except for him, the place is empty of life. But it is full of death. The smell reaches his nose, he shudders, opens his eyes. Sees the others, frozen in a rictus of mocking cheerfulness. They stand in a row against the wall, all the people who made a niche in his soul—there are very few._

_Albus, whose blue eyes are dead without life, dead without recognition and that oh so familiar twinkle. The silly half moon spectacles are perched precariously on his crooked nose, but it doesn't matter, because he's dead and YOU KILLED HIM COWARD what Potter said how dare he—_

_Severus savagely cuts the thought away from his mind and throws it into the dark, into the overfilling pool of quicksilver that rests in the back of his mind._

_There are only two others. Brilliant Lily Evans, whom he never loved romantically—never that way—but respected as a intelligent witch, inventive and who grew to respect him as well, as intellectual equals—Potions genius of her time, and even the Dark Lord knew that, offered her her life if she would work for him (even if he chose to go about it the wrong way; she never hated death the way the Dark Lord did, chose death so her boy would have life—)_

_And—_

_The last witch is not particularly pretty in any way. She is of average height, with dark hair and tired dark eyes. But Severus loved her first, of all of them. He stops in front of her. "Mother," he says._

_But she doesn't reply. She hasn't replied in twenty-eighty years, because a nine-year-old Severus came home and found her dead, dead on the floor, dead like any other person, except that she was already one of the Dark Lord's victims, and Severus didn't know that. He only knew after four years at Hogwarts, when the spectre of the Death Eaters was drawing ever closer, and his housemates spoke with expectation of how they would rid the world of Mudbloods and blood traitors. And indiscreet, grandiose Bellatrix Black laughed loudly and said, Yes, they'll all die. The Prince traitor already did, the Death Eaters made sure of that, and my repulsive sister will as well. Those Death Eaters will purge the unworthy._

_And after that, he sought revenge. There is the burning sensation again in his heart, his soul, and he wants to follow it, to surrender to the pure rage, but want is not his master._

_No, he says, and plunges away, turns and walks away from them. That's the past. I work to stop the future. He sees their eyes in front of him again. Two of you have died, he says, so let me do the best I can and save the last!_

_The words ring out in the cold, lifeless hall, and the eyes fade from view._

_He passes through the doors, and enters the Great Hall again. Except this time, there are many more there, and Albus kneels on the ground before him. No, he says, I don't want it to happen, let me go! Severus shakes his shoulder, and Albus sees him._

_Severus looks up, sees all the people Albus has ever met in his life strewn around. Come on, he says to Albus, don't say, do._

_The Horcrux, says Albus. Don't you see it?_

_Severus sees. The darkness encroaches upon them, grinning sadistically and cruelly. Expecto Patronum, says Albus. Clever Tom, he tries to feed on us._

_They grip each other tightly. A voice says, what about me what about me let me go!_

_They let go, lower their shields. The magic swirls_ _around them. Albus blinding silver, Severus darkly black. But the darkness sweeps forward, you think that can stop me—_

_Severus steps in front of Albus. Yes it can. And his black magic surrounds the darkness, dark to dark, a blazing black phoenix that rises (rises from the ashes of the future), tears and savages the dark. Fight fire with fire, dark with dark. The phoenix tears the darkness to shreds, and he thinks for one last moment that he hears a faint wail, as the last bit of self-consciousness flees towards the walls, before a white phoenix (Albus's fire) engulfs it and it screams as it is crushed out of existence._

_It's gone, says Albus._

_Severus shakes his head, and says, Yes, it's gone, but there's more to come._

_And then the veil draws over their eyes, and they pull their magic back into themselves, and they sink into dreamless sleep_.

**oOo**

Ocram Pods and Slimy Serpent Slinkers are my invention. As for Minerva McGonagall's statement in PoA that she never speaks ill of her colleagues—really now, she was talking to her students then. And practically everyone else on the faculty probably agrees with her.

Ancient Runes Professor Scrivener and _The_ _Lay of Rh'kap-wah_ come from Pavonis's fic _Furious Wielder of Storms_.

Horace Slughorn: "I wonder where he was bitten, probably travelling somewhere in Romania or the like—vampires and werewolves are common out there, you know." It is a slight reference to the WolfieTwins's _Call of the Wild_.

My concepts of SS's history and background have been greatly influenced by RedHen's series of essays on Snape and Nomad1's _Conspiracy of Silence_ series (which I urge everyone to read; see my favourite authors listing). From the Pensieve scene in OotP, I believe that Tobias Snape probably left Eileen and Severus when they were young, and, after reading RedHen's essays, I agree with her excellent reasoning that the Death Eaters, beginning to become active, saw Eileen Prince as a blood traitor and killed her when Severus was young, thus making him live with his Prince grandparents, who most certainly weren't the most friendly of relatives to him (after all, he _is_ half-blood). Of course, he wouldn't have known that. Upon going to Hogwarts, he was taken up by the other purebloods, who saw him as a useful source for hexes and jinxes—then dropped by them, to his dismay, but still the target of certain Gryffindors.

Undoubtedly, he would have resented it, and as the Death Eaters grew more prominent in the wizarding world, he would have realised that they had killed his mother (victims of a Killing Curse can't be that difficult to identify, after all, and what with the Death Eaters' loud rhetoric…), and turned to Dumbledore. When Sirius says in PoA that Snape was poking his nose in other people's business, i.e. inquiring about where the Marauders went, I felt that it was too _blatant_ for Snape. Pointedly asking others about them? Sounds rather Gryffindor to me, no offense. I am more of the opinion that Snape, being a literal half-blood, needed a good reason to show Voldemort that he supported him, and Dumbledore agreed. What Dumbledore probably _didn't_ intend to happen was for Snape to use Remus Lupin and a supposed murder attempt as the reason—he would have thought of something more… nice. And not as life-threatening.

But Snape, not being so bound by Dumbledore's line of thought, probably picked Sirius to irritate for a specific reason: not Remus, of course, nor James, who would have at least the presence of mind to not say anything, nor Peter, who might very well blurt out the entire thing and ruin his objective of having them lure him to the Whomping Willow without telling him a werewolf was there, thus allowing him to claim they had been trying to kill him. Sirius—having already seen his temper in the books—seemed to be the best to irritate, and aggravate, until the fuse was finally lit and the angry, annoyed bomb exploded. (Though SS certainly didn't want a life-debt to James Potter; that was something he probably hadn't counted on.) And so it goes from there.

As for him overhearing the prophecy and turning to Dumbledore at _that_ point out of guilt about the Potters—rubbish. If he had indeed only heard the first half, by the time he was "discovered" and thrown out of the pub, there would have been enough commotion that Dumbledore, listening to Trelawney, would have been disturbed and his attention wavering. Which, according to his memory in OotP, it wasn't. I am more of the opinion that Snape wasn't even there, and, between the two of them, they agreed to release the first half, which simply stated someone would be able to vanquish LV. Frankly, LV had the upper hand in the war by then, and they may have hoped that the prophecy would distract him—they wouldn't have known then to whom the prophecy applied.

Apologies for the extremely long author's note. But it was information that I thought I should give, to clear up any confusion about Snape's role. If anyone need it to be explained more, please say so in your review.

And now that you have finished this chapter… I see a very interesting button down there… that says "Review"…

Talriga


	6. Chapter 6

See Ch. 1 for disclaimer.

Apologies for such a late update. First, I lost the use of my computer for several days, and then I was stuck on the dialogue in this chapter... (still not satisfied with the characterisation, frankly...), and I was going to change it all over again. Then I thought about the fact that the last chapter had been posted a week ago, so I decided to post this. Sorry for the lateness.

**Chapter 6**

Albus woke slowly, painfully. His mind was muddled, and even as he tried to remember what had happened when he and Severus had destroyed the Horcrux, the memories flitted in front of his grasping thoughts, and then darted away.

"Albus?"

He opened his eyes. Severus had propped him up into a sitting position against the wall, and was looking at him with his usual inscrutable black eyes. "Are you all right? The Horcrux was destroyed."

He nodded. "I remember that." His voice was a little scratchy, and Severus handed him a flask of water. Albus finally stood up. "What time is it?"

"Three o'clock in the morning," was Severus's response. He put an arm around Albus's shoulders and supported him as they made their way to the door. Severus stopped when he reached the doorway and murmured a word. The fireplace in Albus's main office suddenly filled with fire, and Albus involuntarily smiled faintly as the fiery warmth caressed his slightly aching bones. _I really am getting old_, he thought to himself as they both sat down in the chairs again. "Only five more Horcruxes to go," he said, more to himself than to Severus.

"Which one do you want to retrieve next?" Severus asked. Albus looked up and saw his sharp black eyes watching him steadily.

"I was thinking of the locket," he replied tiredly, and summoned a sherbet lemon, which dropped in his lap. The corners of Severus's mouth twitched with amusement. Then his mouth turned down into a frown. "Locket? When?"

"Not before the school year starts," said Albus. "And… I was considering the idea of telling Harry about the Horcruxes."

Severus was silent. Then he said, in a strained tone of voice, "And so the Dark Lord shall pick his brain clean, is that what you want?"

But Albus had already anticipated Severus's caustic response, and was shaking his head. "No, no," he was saying. "I will be teaching him Occlumency before I tell him."

"Well then, I do believe I offer my thanks for taking that brat off my hands."

Albus sent Severus a look that, he reflected, was not exactly quite up to his usual standards of sternness. "Severus, now, you must admit that Harry isn't spoiled."

"Yes, well, he expects all his friends and wonderful caretakers to flock about him. I wouldn't be surprised if he were disappointed that he wasn't made Gryffindor prefect, although Weasley is no better. Gryffindors don't make very good prefects, unless you count Percy Weasley, and he should have been a Slytherin, if it weren't for his idiotic family tradition. By the way, have you spoken to him lately about events in the Ministry?"

Albus nodded. "Yes, I did, the last time I visited the Ministry. I admit, I was pleasantly astonished that he could manage to keep his position even with Cornelius's resignation—"

"Another reason why he should have been in Slytherin—"

"But it seems that Minister Scrimgeour, despite his best efforts, seems to be greatly more interested in _appearing_ to capture Death Eaters than actually capturing them. Did you hear about how the Ministry arrested Stan Shunpike and put him in Azkaban for some idle gossip?"

"Shunpike, the Knight Bus conductor? Brainless Gryffindor, as always."

"Severus," said Albus chidingly.

"What's the matter? He _was_ a Gryffindor in school, a glory seeker like all the rest, I might add, and he _is_ brainless."

"You shouldn't speak of people that way."

"My reputation as a nasty professor and Death Eater requires it, and anyway, I've noticed that _you_ haven't said anything to argue for the presence of brains in Shunpike's head."

Albus neatly side-stepped the issue, and instead he said, "Only because it wouldn't change your opinion. And really now, you shouldn't underestimate people."

Severus shot him a sudden, piercing glance and said, "Nor should we underestimate consequences."

The old headmaster could already hear the implicit meaning in his words. "Severus," he started with the tone of one who has said the same thing over and over again, "you know what you need to do."

"Don't bother," Severus said sourly. "Of course, you would know everything. Everything will be fine in the end, I'm sure." There was something Albus found undefinable in his voice, something resigned and bitter. Sensing that they were beginning to tread upon potentially explosive verbal grounds, he quickly asked, "By the way, Severus, do you have your Defence syllabus prepared? I was wondering what you intended for the students this year."

"Hexes," came his swift reply. "Curses. Shields. None of that ridiculous twaddle that Umbridge had. And the students must start on non-verbal spells. That is what is needed in duels."

"Well, that _is_ much better than Dolores's plans." Albus could not help but smile slightly at that.

"And I want to begin on the Patronus Charm with fourth years and up."

"Fourth years—? Isn't that rather early? It would be very difficult for them."

"Difficult for _them_, perhaps, but not so difficult for a Dementor to feast on them. This is war, Albus."

Albus sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. "If only," he said musingly to himself, "I had managed to stop Tom when he was young…"

Severus said, "There's no point in saying if only, Albus. We need to work with what we have and what we do." His eyes slid past Albus, gazing distractedly at nothing in particular, as though he was conversing with someone else.

"I know that, Severus. But still…" Albus looked back at Severus. "Do you know, when he first came to Hogwarts, Tom was quite a lot like you?"

"Should I be insulted by this, or delighted at the compliment?"

Albus laughed. "Oh now, that wasn't an insult. He was very inquisitive, very curious, excelled in his magic. Although sometimes, I think a glimpse of what he was to become showed through." He stared pensively into the fire. "He was… uncommonly ruthless, I suppose. He wouldn't let anyone try and order him about. Of course, the professors back then—most of us were dazzled by him. Amazingly charming—he knew exactly how to approach people."

Severus said, "By manipulating their emotions, you mean."

"Well, yes, and that was what made me uneasy. I remember that I kept thinking, all the time, that he was too charming, too wonderful to be real. But Armando Dippet lauded him like nothing else—we all expected great things of him, to change the world."

The Order spy gave a contemptuous laugh. "Tom Riddle, changing the world? Yes, I suppose you could say that, if killing quite a lot of people is changing the world. What a great thing that is, I'm sure."

Albus sighed. "A terrible thing as well. And now… we, the others, must check him, keep him off and defeat him. I think that is a great thing as well, Severus."

Their eyes met, bright tired blue and dark shadowed black, and in that moment, they both acknowledged the other and the work of several decades, and it was a salute of mutual respect.

**oOo**

During his time at Hogwarts, a schoolboy named Tom Riddle had done extensive research into his ancestry, tracing it all the way back to the famed wizard Salazar Slytherin. Not only had he discovered a basilisk and a chamber, he had found the location of a number of other holdings that Slytherin had kept secret from all others. Now, as Lord Voldemort was preparing another bid for control of the wizarding world, those secret holdings became singularly appropriate for his base of operations.

Castellum Serpens was located in a place which he never revealed to his followers. It was built much in the style of a fort, and the Dark Lord had appropriated the entrance hall for his own usage. It was a place darkened with the shadows thrown by weakly flickering torchlights, and which felt dank and stifling. But then again, the Dark Lord was not fond of bright, cheery things.

He sat on the high dais, listening to Bellatrix Lestrange. His long, spidery fingers were spread out on one of the arms, and his red eyes followed his follower's movements critically even as he listened and contemplated her words.

"My nephew Draco Malfoy has received your command, my Lord," Bellatrix was saying, her wasted faced shining fervently under the faint light. "He is eager to do as you wish and carry out your orders."

The Dark Lord paused, and said bitingly, "You say, Bellatrix, that he is eager to do it. But _can_ he?" He fingered his long yew and phoenix feather wand almost lovingly (except that, of course, he did not love anything, or so one Albus Dumbledore said. He did love one thing in his own twisted way, and that was power, power over others.).

The dark-haired woman said quickly, "Of course he can, my Lord. He is a Malfoy by name, but Black blood runs in his veins, and we have never been known to shirk from duty." The words rang out in a jarring, cacophonous way, flinging themselves around the hall.

"Indeed, or perhaps. I am sure that he will not follow the way of his _other_ relatives—" the Dark Lord began dangerously.

"They are not Blacks, my Lord!" cried Bellatrix, her voice a little defensive at the Black family's black sheep—or white sheep, in a way. "The Black family does not allow cowards and blood traitors!"

The Dark Lord thought of Regulus and Sirius Black, and he said ominously, his voice laced with venom, "Then see to it that you never do again, Bellatrix. Make your nephew ready for what I want of him." He thought of Regulus and Sirius Black, and his magic flared with anger.

Bellatrix sensed the anger. She knelt down again before him, and said, her voice iron-hard with coldness, "My Lord, I will make sure that he does what he must, or he will die doing so."

_And that_, thought the Dark Lord as he dismissed her and Bellatrix bowed subserviently before leaving, _is what I want of him. That fool Lucius Malfoy, such a fool to be caught_.

_And if Draco Malfoy is to attempt to kill Albus Dumbledore, it is no matter if he might succeed—he will still die in Hogwarts. The others, those Mudbloods and traitors to true magic—they will kill him in the end. And slippery Lucius—he will know exactly how my wrath is incurred, and how I will punish him for failure._

The doors opened again, and the Dark Lord looked at the Death Eater entering the hall. The hooded figure pushed back his hood, revealing black hair, black eyes, a sharp, keen countenance. He bowed to him, keeping his head down deferentially.

The Dark Lord leaned forward. "You may look up, Severus," he said.

Severus Snape, his spy in Dumbledore's Order of the Phoenix, straightened and looked at him with a lowered face. "My Lord," he said, the usual requirement for the beginning of a meeting. The Dark Lord scrutinised him, as he always did—people could never be trusted, but spies especially. But Severus Snape's face was still and submissive. He smiled with dark satisfaction. "South Africa seems to have been rather amenable to you, I see," he said, still watching Severus's face.

"Yes, my Lord."

"What did you encounter there of use?"

Severus made another quick deferential nod, and withdrew a sheaf of parchment and a box of potions vials from his robes. "My Lord," he began, "many of the potions were of little use to you. However, the Polish witch Halina Laczniczki gave a certain lecture on pain potions. Thus I determined it to be my duty to research those she mentioned. My Lord." He held out the objects in his hand.

The Dark Lord took them and set it to one side. He could look at them later. Now, he had to turn his attention to Severus's principal job—that of spying. "What of Dumbledore and the Order?"

"I have not heard any plans as of yet, my Lord," said Severus. "However, I must inform you that Dumbledore has given me the Defence position." His face was blank.

There was a pause. The Dark Lord leaned forward, his red eyes glittering with undeniable amusement. _Now, what shall I do about that jinx? No matter, the Potions professor will just have to leave somehow. Or perhaps…_ He nodded. "Indeed," he said. "Well, that is a most interesting development. Who has the Potions position?"

"The old professor, Horace Slughorn."

Fifty or so odd years ago, Slytherin student Tom Riddle would have laughed contemptuously at the mention of Horace Slughorn. During his years at Hogwarts, he had been the favourite of Slughorn's Slug Club, but he had secretly despised Slughorn, who he felt had no ambition whatsoever. His respect, whatever of it that he had had in the first place, had utterly disappeared over the years as Slughorn had failed to realise anything that he had been planning. Even when he had casually inquired about Horcruxes, Slughorn had obligingly told him what they were and how they were made.

The Dark Lord sat back in his chair and tried hard not to smirk in front of the Death Eater. After all, he felt, smirks were not what a Dark Lord should do, especially in front of his subordinates. Instead, he said, "Horace Slughorn… So he is back at Hogwarts? How… informative."

Severus remained respectfully silent.

He returned his attention to his spy. "Is that all to report?"

"Yes, my Lord. I am sorry there is nothing more of note, but I have only just returned."

"I should think," said the Dark Lord rather frigidly, "that several days is plenty of time to gather information, Severus. I admit, I am highly disappointed." He passed his eyes over Severus for a moment, and then he flicked out his wand nonchalantly, and said, "_Crucio_."

There was something about pain that was strikingly satisfying, the Dark Lord reflected as Severus crumpled to his knees, gritting his teeth under the Cruciatus curse. However, he lifted it after only around ten seconds. Severus was a valuable Death Eater, after all, and he appreciated his intelligence. It wouldn't do to put him under the curse for too long. The Dark Lord thought of the Longbottoms, and smiled a cruel smile, his momentary annoyance sated by the thought of the blood traitors' demise at the hands of the Lestranges and Bartemius Crouch Junior.

Severus rose again, trying to stand still and not shake with the faint tremors that usually accompanied the casting of the Cruciatus curse. The Dark Lord surveyed him one final time, and then he said curtly, "I have invested Draco Malfoy with your old task."

Black eyes met his red eyes; Severus said, "Pardon, my Lord?"

The Dark Lord looked at him lazily, from under his half-closed eyes. "I am sure you recall that originally, in 1981, you were to take a position at Hogwarts. I was dissatisfied that you were only able to procure the Potions position—I had _specifically_ wanted the Defence position. You were to bide your time, and then kill Dumbledore at the end of the year." He paused, then added, "Thus fulfilling the curse on the position as well." And he smiled darkly, although his thoughts were tempered with a bit of vitriol and anger. _If only that Potter brat had not interfered…_

"Yes, my Lord, I do."

"Good. It has come to my attention that Draco Malfoy is eager to prove himself to me and restore his family name—considering Lucius's failure this summer at the Ministry, he has ample reason to do so. I have transferred your original task to him. He is to kill Albus Dumbledore sometime during his school year. This is a test of his loyalty and ability. You will not hinder him in his efforts. Do what you must."

"I have no reason to hinder him, my Lord," replied Severus. "As you will it."

"As I will it," agreed the Dark Lord mockingly. "Return to Hogwarts, Severus. I will expect a fuller report next time."

"My Lord." Severus bowed and retreated from the hall.

The Dark Lord carefully watched him all the way until the spy had left through the doors, and then he stood up and stepped down from the dais. He walked around the chair and into the shadows, up to the wall. There, a large map of the United Kingdom was attached to the cold stones.

_Potter's birthday is in a few days. What shall I give him as my present to him_? And he laughed, a low, darkly amused laugh. _Happy birthday, Potter. What family shall I attack for you_?

**oOo**

A hooded woman, not in Death Eater robes, accosted Bellatrix Lestrange in the corridor while another Death Eater had gone in. "What did he say?" she demanded almost hysterically. "What did the Dark Lord say?"

Bellatrix shot the woman an almost proud glance. "He was sceptical of Draco's abilities," she replied haughtily. "I assured him he was perfectly capable and that I would help him succeed."

"Bella!" cried the woman. Her hood fell back, revealing beautiful, delicate features, the planes of her face slanting up to high cheekbones; light blonde hair pulled back into an elaborate chignon at the nape of her graceful neck; shining, almond-shaped blue eyes. At present, the blue eyes were watering and beginning to spill with tears. "But he can't!"

Bellatrix was already shaking her head even as Narcissa was speaking. "This is your chance to redeem the Malfoy name, Cissy!" she said in exasperation. "Lucius failed him—when Draco kills the Muggle-lover Dumbledore, then the Dark Lord will be pleased."

"When! _When_? It's if! He won't be able to do it, he's far too young, he can't—"

"He's a Black and a Malfoy," interrupted Bellatrix. "He will." Her voice was flat and it brooked no argument. "I'll make sure of it, Cissy, I will. He _will_ succeed."

"And die while doing so!"

"Cissy," said Bellatrix, "so the Dark Lord doesn't matter to you?"

"No, of course he matters, but Draco can't do it, Bella, you know that yourself! It's just punishment for Lucius's failure, Draco will die, they won't care about him, they'll kill him!" Narcissa felt as though she was going to pieces. _Oh Merlin, Bella, it's my son we're talking about, it's my son! Lucius is gone, and now he'll die too, and Bella, how can you let him die_! The last phrase was a soundless wail, but her eyes pleaded quietly, desperately.

Bellatrix wiped away the tears tracking their way down Narcissa's face with a handkerchief. "Narcissa," she said impatiently, "I'll train Draco. I'll train him so he can do it, and he will! The Dark Lord has spoken, and we will not defy him."

Narcissa leaned against the stone wall, her whole body feeling numb and cold with fear for her son. "Very well," she said, her voice coming out small and tiredly. "Very well. But Draco can't die, Bella, he's my only son…"

"I know," said Bella. She watched Narcissa for a moment longer, and then she said, "Yaxley is waiting for me, I must go." She turned on her heel and left, dark hair flying out behind her, leaving Narcissa standing by herself and terribly alone.

She did not know exactly how long she was standing there, lost in her thoughts and fear and hurt, when another voice said, sardonically, "Has one of your plots gone awry, Narcissa?"

Narcissa whirled around, startled and involuntarily stiffening at the realisation that someone had snuck up on her without her knowing. At first she did not recognise the man who stood before him, but as her eyes travelled over his short black hair, emotionless dark eyes, and his striking face, she blinked, and said, her voice faltering slightly, "Oh, Severus, it's you. The Dark Lord called you, then?"

"Yes." The reply was short, curt, and cold. He watched her for a moment, before saying, "He also told me about the honour he had given to Draco."

Narcissa's heart seemed to seize up and gasp. "Yes, it's an honour," she said quickly. "Then—then he'll be able to make the Dark Lord happy, he'll please him, and Lucius will be forgiven for his failure."

"I don't think that's what you think," said Severus, his eyes dangerous and calculating. He smiled at her, but it was not a particularly nice smile. It was assessing and weighing her desires and motivations, and evaluating how they would affect her actions. _Why_, Narcissa thought, a little fear worming its way into her heart, _does Severus have to be such a Slytherin? Why does he have to be so observant_?

Then she abruptly remembered that Severus was an accomplished Legilimens as well as an Occlumens, and quickly averted her eyes so that they were resting on the piece of stone wall next to Severus's head.

But Severus obviously noticed. The ends of his mouth curved up in a vaguely amused smirk. "Am I that ugly to you, Narcissa?" he asked.

"No, no, you're not ugly, Severus. It's only—" Narcissa did not know why she did what she did, but then again, perhaps it was because Severus was one of Draco's professors—she gripped his arm tight and led him into the shadowed corners. "Draco can't do it," she whispered, feeling her eyes beginning to water again—oh Merlin, this was ridiculous, having her lose her Black bred composure in front of a half-blood!

"I know he can't," Severus replied in that smirking, infuriating way of his. "He isn't ruthless enough. He's too involved in his petty rivalries; he can't actually murder anyone."

"You think so too?" Any other time, Narcissa would have been cautious, but this was not any other usual time. "Couldn't you do it for him? At least spare him that much—"

"Narcissa." Severus's voice was icy, cold, and Narcissa felt the shifts of magic around them, pooling and hovering near Severus, ready to do his bidding. He was angry. "Should I risk my cover for his sake? The Dark Lord does not approve of that. And my information is much more important. Draco will have to learn how to do it, or die in the attempt."

Oh yes, Severus was being cold. Narcissa felt a tear make its trail down her face, and she quickly turned it away, so that Severus wouldn't see it. "He's your student," she said, her voice oddly detached, because she knew that Severus wasn't really listening to her words. "You're his teacher. You have a duty to him…"

"I have a higher duty, Narcissa."

"To the Dark Lord, yes," Narcissa replied. She took up the bitterness that rose in her soul, and sealed it away into the part of herself that festered with anger and resentment against the Dark Lord for ruining their family like this. Lucius in jail, Draco to be killed. Secretly, a bitter, dark part of her whispered, _He isn't exalting us purebloods, he's destroying us. Why couldn't things have stayed the way they used to be_?

Severus was silent. Then he suddenly said, "Narcissa, I cannot promise anything to you, but I will do my best to keep Draco alive, if that makes you feel any better."

An overwhelming wave of relief swept over Narcissa. Severus was considered by Dumbledore to be trustworthy, he placed stock in Severus, if he stepped in for Draco and said a few words—

_My son will be alive_. Her magic threatened to spill out with barely concealed relief. But her eyes narrowed—Severus Snape did not have favours to give, only agreements—and she said, "What do you require in return?"

"I hear," Severus said, cocking his dark head to one side, "that the Malfoy manor has a library with a very extensive collection of manuscripts, many of which are very rare editions." He flashed her another smirk.

_Books? Severus, I'll give all the books in there to you, as long as Draco stays safe_. She nodded; said in a more composed tone, "I might invite you over to the manor sometime, since you have expressed such an interest in our library. Some of it might help you with your research."

"I am glad that we have come to a mutual understanding," said Severus. Nodding to her, he stepped around her and walked off, his black robes billowing behind him.

Narcissa lay her head against the wall. _I will have to teach Draco how to be careful this year_, she thought to herself. _He must stay alive_.

**oOo**

Over the course of two years at the Ministry of Magic—more specifically, working in the Department of International Magical Cooperation, then the Minister's inner circle—it was well known that Percy Ignatius Weasley had the regular habit of going to the Ministry library and archives every day during the lunch break. Invariably, the librarian (forty-six years old, former Ravenclaw, wore a golden pince-nez and a grey wig) would look up at that time to see a redheaded man with tortoise shell glasses walk in and take a seat. His seat was always near the back of the library, where most people would not be able to see him unless they were actively searching for him. He always sat at the same table, the same chair, next to the same bookshelf containing the entire series of _Hogwarts, a History_ editions through the ages. He always left after fifteen minutes, off to get some lunch. The librarian, a kindly woman by the name of Mrs Doten, assumed that Percy Weasley must be an extremely academic type of worker, considering he was always browsing through the books and skimming through them.

To the contrary, Percy Weasley was not so much an academic type of worker as he was a very dedicated one, although only two other people knew his actual status of "work."

Percy Weasley was a spy.

He was a very good one.

He sat in the back of the library, pretending to glance through an old copy of the Ministry election results dating from 1846. In reality, he was expanding his awareness of his surroundings, using his Legilimency skills to gently skim over the surfaces of others' minds.

_Ah, there's Turnpike again. What is he reading about—the preparation of pickles? And—oh, good Merlin—_

He hastily skipped over the mind of Maxwell Lannister, who was discreetly peeking at a copy of a rather more _indiscreet_ type of magazine. Trying to ignore the disturbing images that he had seen, his Legilimency scan suddenly came to an abrupt halt as it _bounced_ off an Occlumency shield, which seemed to fluidly accommodate the probe before launching it back at him with a surprising speed.

Percy winced at the impact. This was a contact day, then. The last contact day had been nearly a month and a half ago. Pity his contact had to be so irritable at times…

He got up from his chair and leisurely made his way over to the bookshelf with the editions of the venerated _Hogwarts, a History_. Slipping between that bookshelf and another, he ambled up to a block of books on Ministry procedures for filing legal claims. He took one of the books off the shelves and opened it, setting the spine of the book against the bookshelf. Conveniently enough, his visual line of sight happened to go right through the vacancy left by the book, across an aisle, to another vacancy at an angle, where another pair of eyes flickered up to meet his.

_Hello, Professor_, Percy said to Professor Severus Snape.

_Weasley_. Yep, Snape was definitely annoyed today. Percy thought he had a good inkling as to why. The day happened to be the thirty-first of July, which also happened to be the birthday of Harry James Potter, a certain Boy-Who-Lived. No wonder Snape was irritable.

Wait, he usually was anyway. Percy wondered how he was supposed to categorise Snape's levels of irritability. _Number one, the highest level of hell. Number two, the middle level of hell. Number three, the lowest level of hell…_ No, he was being too hard on the professor. Considering the fact that he had to spend so much time around immature children…

_How's your day been, Professor_? Percy asked, a note of mischief underlying his words.

The reply came in words that, if spoken, would have been in the form of a scowl and a glare. _Very funny, I'm sure, Weasley. You're taunting me, just because you've managed to escape the brats_. By brats, he meant his brothers, no doubt._ What has Scrimgeour been up to again_?

_The Minister_, Percy began—he had the sort of malicious satisfaction at going off on long tangents and watching people get confused and bored—_issued an order yesterday putting Ministry Aurors on guard around Hogwarts—_

_I already _know _that, Weasley_, snapped Snape (_Alliteration_, thought Percy). _I _live _there, you dimwit! Don't bother with the public stuff, get to what we need to know_!

Percy sighed. Sometimes he thought that last year had really been more interesting. Of course, he had had to fight the desire to cast a Silencing charm on his superior Dolores Umbridge at times, but it had almost been thrilling. He had warned Dumbledore about Cornelius Fudge coming to arrest him—that was how the venerable Hogwarts headmaster had known and been prepared for it, and Percy had even gone so far as to tweak the team a bit. Beckett Sumner, one of the two Aurors in the former Minister's personal guard (the other being Derek Dawlish), had unexpectedly been struck with a strain of the stomach virus, happening to fortunately recover after only a few hours. Thus, the Junior Undersecretary to the British Minister of Magic had hurriedly—and randomly, of course—chosen Kingsley Shacklebolt as a temporary replacement. Dumbledore had been highly amused at Percy's machinations.

_Weasley_, came Snape, sneering, _you're no James Bond yet. Stop broadcasting your thoughts and say something substantial_.

_James Bond_? Percy wondered. But he cleared his head of his miscellaneous thoughts, looked across the aisle. _Scrimgeour doesn't like Dumbledore_, he said plainly. _He thinks he's mucking around in the Ministry, and he resents that. He's also rather insecure, because, considering that Voldemort's back, and this is within his first few months as Minister—I've been assuring him that he can do a good job, of course_.

_Undoubtedly, he can_, muttered Snape. _As soon as he stops going after idiots like Shunpike. Haven't you managed to direct his attention toward any of the hideouts I gave you_?

_Look here now_, Percy said, _I can't out and out say to him, "By the way, Minister, Fenrir Greyback has many of his werewolves in this particular forest, and so and so should be arrested." He's just more worried about looking like he's doing the best he can, to boost public morale_.

_He shouldn't just boost it_, grumbled Snape. _He needs to actually do something, Weasley_.

_Oh, so now you're blaming me. Brilliant_.

_You seem to have misheard, Weasley. I was complaining about Scrimgeour_, Snape said.

Percy replied, _Well, there's no use complaining, Professor, so we need to do something as well_.

_Typically Gryffindor_.

_You always say I'm more Slytherin, don't you_?

_You originally intended to be Minister of Magic…_

Percy grinned. _I think it's a lot more fun pulling strings in the background_.

_Fun_?

_Yes, fun, Professor_.

_Very well, then_. Percy felt a sadistic edge to Snape's words. _Then you can check out these specific books for me. History, to be exact. History of dark magic—to be more precise, Dark wizards and their experiments_.

_Er… why_? Percy asked, puzzled. _And why do I have to do it? Couldn't you just check out the books_?

_Because_, Snape replied, _my library records will show what I am borrowing. On the other hand, you being the Junior Undersecretary means that your records are on the highest clearance. And since I am a supposedly former Death Eater, the Ministry would be suspicious if they were to see what I was borrowing_.

_Fine, fine_, muttered Percy. _Can I ask why these books specifically_?

_It has something to do with lycanthropy_.

_Pardon_?

_At the Potions convention I went to, one of the participants there spoke to me about the Wolfsbane potion—its usefulness evidently expires after a period of use. It seems that the potion's effectiveness wears off as the lycanthropy gets used to it. Also, it seems that the lycanthropy has a soul of its own_. Snape's voice was vaguely distasteful.

_A soul of its own_? Percy resisted the urge to take off his glasses and polish the lenses, an action he usually did when confronted with another huge problem. _So it's alive_?

_Not only alive_, said Snape, _but it looks as though the lycanthropy was formed from experimenting with Dark magic. That is why I'm researching all these books—there must be some written record of Dark experimentation_.

_Good Merlin_, thought Percy. He placed the opened book on the bookshelf and took off his glasses, proceeding to polish the lens ferociously with the sleeves of his slim Ministry robes. _Well, good luck to you, Professor_.

_If you're half so clever as you think you are, you can research it too, and we can see what useless theories you will come up with_.

Percy smiled to himself. Amidst all the insults, he had sensed the vague compliment—that Snape, at least, was willing to have Percy work on the problem as well.

_Mm-hmm. Is that all for today_?

_Yes_.

Snape stepped back from the other shelf, and seemed ready to turn and go, when Percy suddenly, quickly asked, _How's my family_?

_Your family_?

_Yeah, my family. Are they all right_?

Snape grunted. _Your parents and siblings continue to be disappointed that you refuse to reconcile with them. They are surprised and astonished that you doggedly cling to the Minister, when it is obvious that Fudge was wrong. Ron and Ginevra Weasley are openly annoyed with you, the wretched twins have sworn to take revenge, and the elder two mutter about how you were always too thick to see the truth_.

_That's flattering_, Percy said, his voice dripping sarcasm. The annoying thing about being a spy, reflected Percy, was that no-one else was ever allowed to know.

_Meanwhile, I assume that as soon as I get back to headquarters, they will be having a huge, ridiculous birthday party for Potter, where he will be inundated by gifts and cake_.

Percy grinned. _Oh dear, Professor Snape, are you jealous of Harry's party_?

His only response was a mental sneer, as Snape turned around and stalked away, a book tucked under his arm to preserve his cover of browsing through the bookshelves.

**oOo**

"Castellum Serpens": castellum is Latin, literally for "fortified village," and Serpens is a constellation in the shape of a snake.

The "as you will it" exchange is from Nomad1's _Conspiracy of Silence_.

The quip about Percy Weasley being a very good spy is taken verbatim from Samvimes's _International Relations_.

Turnpike and the preparation of pickles come from Tess's _The Diary of Gregory J. Turnpike_.

Some people may be surprised by my characterisation of Percy Weasley, but I believe that there is quite a bit of evidence in OotP that he is a Ministry spy. First, considering that Shacklebolt is head of the Black manhunt, why would he be with Fudge to arrest Dumbledore—unless someone had arranged it all before. And Dumbledore seemed to be expecting it… Also, Percy's letter to Ron can be construed as a warning. He couldn't very well say right out to Ron what he meant, what with Umbridge opening the students' mail. And to be honest, the idea of him being a secret spy is much more exciting...

Sorry for the late update, and please review!

Talriga


	7. Chapter 7

See Ch. 1 for disclaimer.

**Chapter 7**

"Happy birthday, Harry!"

There was a brief moment in which Harry stepped into the room, staring with undisguised awe at the elaborate decorations put around the room, and then several blurs of colour came toward him, laughing. A black-haired blur embraced him tightly, a red-haired blur smacked him on the back cheerfully, and a brown-haired blur grabbed his hand and dragged him into the center of the room (They were, respectively, Sirius Black, Ron Weasley, and Hermione Granger, of course.).

"Like the decorations?" Ron asked, grinning. "You owe me one, mate, I nearly tripped over the table there trying to get one of the banners up." The banner he was pointing to was a colourful, garish banner—against a background of red and gold, "HAPPY SIXTEENTH BIRTHDAY, HARRY!" was spelled across it in bold black letters.

"Like it?" Harry said incredulously. "Merlin, I love it! You really shouldn't have gone to all that trouble, you know—"

"Harry," Hermione interrupted him, raising an eyebrow, "we're only trying to make up for the Dursleys, really. A coin for Christmas, honestly!"

"Well, it wasn't like I was actually expecting anything from them—"

"We, as your friends, have the duty to make your birthday a good one," returned Hermione. "We go to all this effort and you try to say we shouldn't have?"

Harry laughed; he knew he had lost the argument, but he found that he didn't particularly mind at all. "You win, Hermione."

"Get the cake," Sirius yelled across the room. "Get the birthday cake for the birthday boy!"

Harry looked up into Sirius's face. His usually tired, shadowed countenance had utterly vanished, replaced by a laughing, smiling, Sirius who grinned down at him and said, "Isn't this the life, Harry?" Harry smiled back. He was seeing the Sirius Black who had been best man at his parents' wedding, and he rather liked him.

And then Sirius's face turned away from him. "Merlin, no! Molly, don't let Tonks carry it, she'll—"

The Weasley matron quickly plucked the cake from Tonks, whose hair was striped red and gold today, and who had nearly stumbled to the ground over one of the Weasley twins' joke boxes. "Get that out of the way," she said to one of the twins. "Really now, you shouldn't be leaving your things lying all over the floor."

"Why, Mum—"

"We didn't leave our box there—"

"Never on purpose—"

"How could you think—"

"Such a thing—"

"Of us?" finished George, and then he turned and yelled to Harry, "Oi, Harry, get over here and hurry up! Where's the cake, I'm hungry!"

Harry thought to himself, _I could really grow to like this. No, wait, I _do_ like it_.

Several minutes later, the raucous chatter and movements had died down a little. Harry was seated at the long, rectangular wooden table, staring down at an enormous cake. It was chocolate, double layered with melted chocolate in between the layers, and a thick covering of white frosting and cream had been spread across the cake. The by now all too familiar phrase of expressing felicities for his birthday was written on the frosting in red lettering. Sixteen candles, all glowing with flickering, golden light, and somehow all managing to not fall off the cake, watched him expectantly, as did many pairs of cheerful eyes, waiting for him to make the first move. The room was eerily quiet.

"Make a wish, Harry," Sirius said, his left hand resting on Harry's right shoulder. "Go ahead."

Harry closed his eyes. What could he ever wish for, besides this? To be with his friends, godfather, and people who all cared about him…

He watched the candles for a moment longer, and then he thought, _I want us to win the war, this war against Voldemort, without so many people dying, and that someone can stop all the bloodshed that's coming_.

He leaned forward and blew fiercely on the candles. The puff of air from his breath flowed across the small flames, and most of the lights went out. One stubborn one remained in the middle, glaring defiantly back at him. But with the next breath, it flickered out as well, leaving sixteen small trails of smoke floating in the air.

Harry grinned at the cake and thought, _I win_.

Then, in the next few seconds, he plucked all the candles off the cake and set them on the table. Mrs Weasley pushed her way through, holding a knife. "Here, Harry, I'll be slicing the cake. If anyone else does it, who knows what will happen…"

Harry licked at the icing. "Who baked it?" he asked. "It's really good."

"Mum, of course." Harry turned to see Ginny standing next to him. She continued, "She wouldn't let me do anything about the baking, you know, but I don't blame her. I haven't got her talent for cooking. Give me a treacle pudding, and I'll make the stove explode."

"Not only that," said Bill, his fang earring dangling from his ear as he reached out a hand for a plate of cake, "but she'll set the entire house on fire. Even Kreacher wouldn't have been as bad as that."

Harry and Sirius exchanged glances. Kreacher had mysteriously vanished from 12 Grimmauld Place, and whenever Harry tried to ask Sirius about the decrepit, annoying house elf, he changed the subject and started talking about other things.

Harry decided, sometime, that he was going to count all the house elf heads that were mounted on the walls before Lupin began to take them down. On the other hand, perhaps not—he didn't really want to bother with a house elf who had tricked him into thinking Sirius was in danger.

"Mm-hmph, Hawwy," muttered Ron through a mouthful of cake. "Whar you ta'ing fo' clas'es?"

"Huh?"

Next to Ron, Hermione opened her mouth as though she were about to chastise the youngest Weasley brother for speaking with his mouth full, but seemed to change her mind and, instead, she simply handed him a napkin, a look of resignation on her face.

"Thanks, Hermione," Ron said, his voice still a little muffled. He coughed once, twice, and then he asked again, "What are you taking for classes this year?"

Fred sidled up to them. "Did I hear right?" he said in tones of mock horror. "Ickle Ronniekins, asking about classes! The world has come to an end! Flee, all of you!"

Sirius laughed.

"You're being silly and melodramatic, Fred, stop it," said Ginny, and not so gently slapped him.

"Ow."

"Your fault, Fred."

"I haven't really thought about it," Harry admitted as he set down his already empty plate. "Definitely NEWT-level Defence—"

"No surprise there," Hermione said wryly.

"Definitely not," Harry agreed. "But I can't take NEWT-level Potions, which I need to become an Auror."

Ron looked incensed. "Why not? You've faced You—Voldemort so many times, why couldn't you be one?"

"Because I need NEWT-level Potions to be an Auror, and Snape doesn't let anyone into his NEWT-level Potions classes without an Outstanding. I won't be allowed in."

"Bloody Snape," muttered Sirius. "Of course he wants to make everything hard for you, just because he hated James—"

"You may be mistaken there, Mr Potter, Mr Black," said a stern voice, and Harry looked up to see Minerva McGonagall. She was dressed as usual, in dark red robes, and her dark, beginning to turn grey hair was pulled back into a tight bun. She adjusted the set of her spectacles and looked serious, as always. But she nodded to Harry, and said, "You see, Professor Snape is not teaching Potions classes this year."

"He _isn't_?" gasped Sirius. "What scared that bat away?"

"He _isn't_?" gasped Ron. "_Yes_, we're _rid_ of him!"

"He _isn't_?" gasped Hermione. "But he's so _good_ at Potions."

Ron groaned. "Oh Merlin, Hermione, you've got something wrong with your head. You need to go to St Mungo's Janus Thickey Ward."

"I shall be sure to pass on your flattering remark to him sometime," McGonagall said to Hermione. "And no, Mr Weasley, you are not rid of him. He will be teaching Defence."

Despite the fact that the room was full of laughter and conversation, for a moment Harry could not hear anything; it was as though the world had momentarily gone silent, what with his utter surprise. "_Defence_?" he said incredulously.

"Yes, Defence Against the Dark Arts, Mr Potter," McGonagall responded crisply. "You _do_ know what that subject is, don't you?" she added tartly.

"But Snape and _Defence_? He's a—" Harry abruptly cut off his sentence.

"Death Eater," said Sirius, his mouth twisted unpleasantly, as though he had just swallowed a sour lemon in its entirety, peel and seeds and pulp and all, and it was presently churning in his stomach.

"Death Eater? Yes," said McGonagall, her voice nonchalant.

"And the jinx…" Hermione said, frowning.

"A ridiculous notion, of course," replied McGonagall. "The Potions Professor this year is Horace Slughorn—you remember him of course, don't you, Sirius?" she addressed Harry's godfather.

"Slughorn? Yeah, I remember him. Why's he coming back to Hogwarts?"

The corners of McGonagall's mouth twitched with something which seemed to be amusement. "Horace is in dire fear of his life," she said, and swept off.

Sirius gave a derisive snort and turned to Harry. "Well," he said, smiling weakly at Harry, "look on the bright side. You can take NEWT-level Potions now, Harry—Slughorn absolutely adored your mother, she was great at Potions."

"Really? She was?"

"Really," replied Sirius. "Now let's open some presents, shall we?"

He gestured toward the large pile of presents near the fireplace, and led Harry to one of the nearby chairs, and then sitting down. "Well, well, look here," he said, grinning.

Harry looked, and saw a brightly coloured box, with "Weasleys' Wizarding Wheezes" emblazoned across the front in lurid orange.

"That's our present," said George. "Will you do us the favour of opening ours first?"

"What do you consider a favour?" replied Harry pointedly, and undid the shiny red ribbon that was wrapped around the box. Pulling off the wrapping paper (which happened to be maroon; Harry wondered if the twins were poking fun at Ron's yearly Weasley jumper in his least favourite colour), his efforts revealed a large, bulky box that said _Weasleys' Wizarding Wheezes: Deluxe Edition_.

"Oh, good Merlin," said Hermione wearily. "More prank items?"

"More items that may be of use when confronted with certain unpleasant people," Fred corrected her, and winked cheekily at Harry. "Snape and Malfoy," he whispered under his breath.

Harry chuckled and lifted the lid off the box. Inside rested several small packages of Canary Creams, Puking Pastilles, Nosebleeding Nougat, Portable Swamps—"Peeves sure gave Umbridge hell about that," said George, grinning—Headless Hats, and a few samples of what Fred solemnly informed him were brand-new products that "we haven't even released yet, but we thought you deserved them as our sponsor."

"Thanks, you two," Harry said. "I'm sure I'll be able to put them to use somehow."

"We've never doubted you, Harry," chorused the twins in unison. "Call on Gred—"

"And Forge—"

"Whenever you want!"

The next present was from Remus Lupin, a copy of _The Auror's Guide to Dueling_, a slim, blue-bound book, the corners of some of its pages creased. "Where did you get it?" Hermione asked. "I thought those were only reserved for Aurors and their recruits."

"Tonks helped me with it," said Lupin.

"Actually, I nicked it," Tonks cut in. Her red and gold striped hair momentarily darkened to the blue of the book's cover before returning to her former shade in Gryffindor colours. "Dawlish had a copy of his in his cubicle that he was going to take home, but I saw it and I thought you might like it."

"Wonder what Dawlish is going to think?" said Sirius, grinning.

"Dawlish?" Ron asked. "He's that bloke who tried to arrest Dumbledore, didn't he?"

"Yeah," said Tonks. "He's a decent person, except he followed what the Ministry said and did and didn't argue with it. I decided that his donation of a copy of that book would make up for his penance and forgiveness."

"I'm sure he agreed," said Hermione dryly.

"Of course he did!" Tonks replied, grinning. "How could he not? Contribute to the education of the Boy Who Lived…"

"Don't even start," Harry told her in a mock threatening sort of way. Tonks laughed.

A few of the other Order members had contributed some thoughtful, small tokens in acknowledgement of his birthday. Dedalus Diggle, Harry discovered with some amusement, had given him a box of Muggle fireworks (He promised Fred and George he would let them have some, under Mrs Weasley's glower.). Hestia Jones had wrapped up a box of Toothflossing Stringmints in a demure shade of brown (At that, Hermione said, "My parents would really like those for their dentistry practice."). Alastor Moody, as paranoid and cautious as ever, gave him a wand holster to strap to his left forearm, which made for an easy draw if he were in a fight, which he had very good chances of being so ("Constant vigilance!" he barked, all the while watching Harry with both eyes, ordinary and glass, and snapping at him about how to correctly put it on.).

Kingsley Shacklebolt's gift was a copy of a caricature of Dolores Umbridge an anonymous person, and obviously talented in the artistic zone, had put up in the Ministry lobby. Her face was distorted—if it were even possible, more than usual—a wide, pouting mouth and bulging eyes looking distinctly unbecoming upon her sagging face. Her skin had been coloured the shade of green that an ugly toad might possess, and a small line, starting from her mouth, led to a short phrase that was written all in capitals: "CROAK! LIES! LIES! LIES!" Above the not particularly flattering picture, a snake was flying down towards her, saying, "You have been such a great help, my dear!" There was the faintest trace of a skull set over the snake; the lines were still barely visible, even though the artist had evidently decided to erase it. "I thought you might find it interesting," said Shacklebolt, with the trace of a smirk.

"I think I do," replied Harry, and smirked back in acknowledgement of their mutual distaste for the unpleasant woman. "It's a very good likeness of Umbridge."

Ginny wrinkled her nose. "Ugh, that just spoiled my day," she complained. "Seeing Umbridge's face again… open my present, Harry, it's a picture too. I thought it up, but Dean helped with a lot of it, he's good at drawing like that." She handed Harry a rectangular, thin package. Harry unwrapped the gift, and his green eyes went a little wide at what he saw. "Good Merlin," he said. "It's Hogwarts."

The others leaned over to see the painting as well. It was a magnificent rendering of the British school of magic during the winter, subtle shades of red and brown blending into each other upon the building, darkly haunting grey and white dotting the faraway tops of the Forbidden Forest. It was inanimate, but Harry found that, in a way, that only made the painting even better. It was like a picture frozen in time, capturing that one ethereal moment when a person looked out across the landscape and saw the essence of beauty. Delicate frostwork spun its way between dark boughs of trees, stark and bare, with light, ethereal warp laid upon the dark woof. "Wow," he breathed again. "Thanks, Ginny."

Ginny shook her head. "Don't thank me, you ought to be thanking Dean. He was the one who painted most of it, I just did the sketching of the outlines."

"It's still great," Harry said. _I am going to need to write a thank you note to Dean_, he thought.

They all looked a moment longer at the painting, and then Harry set it aside gently. Turning to a smaller gift—in fact, it was about the size of a pocket Sneakoscope—he picked it up and shook it to guess at what might be inside.

"That's mine," said Hermione. "But now that I've seen Ginny's present, I feel inferior." She grinned at Ginny, a teasing tone in her voice.

Harry opened the small box, and lifted out a finely wrought golden chain, from which dangled a small object. He frowned, and brought the chain closer to his eyes, making out the charm. It was a simple, flattened piece of gold, roughly shaped into a triangle with the peak attached to the chain. Just one word was written on the flat golden triangle: _Eihwaz_.

"Eihwaz?" Harry asked, a little bit confused.

"It's a rune meaning defence," Hermione said. She looked somewhat embarrassed. "What with Voldemort and the Death Eaters… I thought you might need it…"

Harry stared at the golden chain. "Yeah," he said. "I think I definitely need it." He pulled it over his head so that it rested against the hollow of his throat. "Thanks, Hermione. It was really practical of you."

Hermione smiled back at him, but her expression was tempered by a bit of sadness, her face dark with her thoughts. "Yeah, I think you do," she said.

Ron pushed his present into Harry's hands. "Dad helped me with this," he admitted. "We based it on that clock we have at the Burrow."

It was a small round platinum pocket watch, with the initials "H. P." etched into it. Harry flipped the watch open; instead of telling time, there were several clock hands with names written on them. Harry rotated it in his hand. _Ron, Hermione, Snuffles_ ("I had to put Snuffles because you really can't have Sirius's name on the watch, can you?" said Ron.). The words around the edges were sleeping, eating, in class, mortal peril, and travelling.

"You can add more things onto it," said Ron. "You say '_Clocca adere_' to add a hand or a mode, but there's a maximum of… I think seven hands and seven modes."

_Is there supposed to be something odd about the fact that my two best friends' presents to me deal with the war and what's happening to them_? Harry wondered. He grinned at Ron and said, "Thanks, mate, I really like it." He paused, and then with some effort attached the pocket watch to the golden chain around his neck. "There, now both of them are together. I won't lose either of them, they're great."

Lupin smiled; then he got up and excused himself. "Someone's calling me," he said, and strode off through the milling crowd of people in the room.

Sirius picked up a box from the rest of the presents and gave it to him. "I found it in my vault," he said quietly. "I remember that it was my present to James for his wedding to Lily, but he asked me to put some stuff in my vault, just in case. I thought—you might like it…"

The box was made of cherrywood, of a simple design. In the middle of the lid there was a carving of a large, blooming lily, and along the sides small stags pranced and tossed their antlers about. Harry felt his throat closing up. He lifted the lid. A light, lilting voice suddenly sounded from the box. It was a woman's voice, and she was singing in a beautiful, high soprano.

"_Lully, lullay, thou little tiny child,  
By, by, lully, lullay._

"_O sisters too, how may we do,  
For to preserve this day  
This poor youngling for whom we sing  
By, by, lully, lullay?_

"_Herod the king, in his raging,  
Charged he hath this day  
His men of might, in his own sight,  
All young children to slay._

"_That woe is me, poor child for thee!  
And ever morn and day  
For thy parting neither say nor sing,  
By, by, lully, lullay._

"_Lully, lullay, thou little tiny child,  
By, by, lully, lullay_."

"What is it?" Harry asked, his voice a little breathless and quiet, as the lingering notes of the melody died away—yet the notes still seemed to hang in the air, hovering and ringing faintly. The others remained silent, watching the box.

"The 'Coventry Carol,'" said Sirius, still staring at the box. "It was one of Lily's favourite songs. The box was a musical recorder of sorts, she sang and it recorded the songs and she could play it back. I didn't think he'd put that in my vault, but then I found it and I knew you had to have it…"

Harry looked at his godfather. "Yes," he said. "Thanks, Sirius."

The returning smile was brilliant and dazzling and infinitely wistful.

**oOo**

"Excuse me," Remus said apologetically. "Someone's calling me." He got to his feet and made his way to the door. He had purposefully not said _who_ was calling him, because he had the distinct feeling that neither Sirius nor Harry (nor anyone else there, for that matter) would take kindly to the fact that Severus Snape was there, at Harry Potter's birthday party. By using some Legilimency when Remus's eyes had gone to the door for a moment, Severus had bluntly told Remus that he would have to cut himself off from the little party that, as Severus had put it by amazing polite words (though not tone), _Potter is presently enjoying right now_.

Remus edged out of the room and quietly shut the door behind him. "Yes, what is it, Severus?" he said pleasantly, and then looked with scrutiny at Severus's appearance. His eyes widened. "You cut your hair," he said in surprise.

"Very smart to realise that," was Severus's acidic response. He leaned against the wall, arms folded neatly, a stack of books resting on the ground beside. Remus realised that they were probably from the Black family library. He turned his head to look at Remus, and a strand of black hair fell across his forehead. "I've come to bring some news for you, Lupin, though I doubt you'll like it." He pulled his wand and flicked it smoothly in a practised way; vaguely, Remus felt silencing wards settle around him—Severus always did that, it had become a regular habit of his when holding conversations involving sensitive information.

Remus tried hard to suppress his sense of foreboding that the world was coming to an end if Severus had cut his hair (_Severus with short hair, who would've thought it_, he wondered, and then wondered again why he hadn't noticed it at the last Order meeting, and if anyone else had—_No, he had stayed in the shadows_…) and instead replied, "Well, then what's wrong, Severus?"

"Everything," said Severus dryly. "What do you think? Never mind," he said irritably as Remus opened his mouth to ask as to what he meant, "just know this and you can go back to your favourite pastime of watching Potter open presents. You won't be getting the Wolfsbane potion this month."

"What?" Remus blinked. When Severus had said he wouldn't like the news, he had expected a new Ministry restriction on werewolves or something like that, not this. "Why not? You're a brilliant potions brewer."

"Flattery gets you nowhere, Lupin," Severus said. "You won't be getting the Wolfsbane potion this month, or the next month, or the month after that. Suffice it to say, after a while, the potion won't make a difference."

Remus blinked again. "How could it not make a difference?" he asked quizzically. "It preserves my mind during the full moon—"

"It won't anymore, not if you take it for too long," Severus interrupted. Seeing the stunned look on Remus's face, he rolled his eyes with exasperation (_Well, I'm sorry_, thought Remus, _but you haven't explained anything_) and said, "Look here, Lupin. In Johannesburg, a contact of mine gave me some information about lycanthropy and the Wolfsbane potion. The effects of the potion are vanishing after a period of taking the potion. You take it for too long, you'll still go crazy at the full moon and some idiotic sod will get hurt. Or someone who's been told to go where," he added pointedly.

Remus involuntarily flinched at the reminder of the Whomping Willow incident. Really, now, it had been so many years ago, yet Severus continued to insinuate things about that and how Sirius was trying to murder him. Remus supposed Severus, after the so called prank, had hated them even more for that. With an effort, he wrenched his mind back to the words before. "So… the potion isn't working?" he asked hesitantly.

"Are you deaf, Lupin? Did I not say that already? Yes, the potion will stop working. Not only that," said Severus, "but evidently, lycanthropy isn't a disease."

"What do you mean, it isn't a disease?" Remus said incredulously. "It was transmitted to me, for Merlin's sake, and you say it isn't a disease?"

"It's not a disease," said Severus snidely. "It's an organism. A soul, so to speak, twisted out of recognition by Dark magic experimentation centuries ago, I suppose, and which happens to go through the bloody process of reproduction during the full moon. Congratulations, Lupin, you're the carrier of a parasite. Happy tidings."

Remus stared at Severus for a moment. He opened his mouth to say something, and the first thing that came to mind and became vocalised was, "Severus, you have such great tact." His words were sardonic and dripped with sarcasm.

"I tell the truth," replied Severus blandly. "The lycanthropy is constantly adapting itself to whatever circumstances it encounters. The Wolfsbane potion kept it at bay for a while, but now it's evidently found a way around it, so it won't work if you take it for too long. So I'm not making it—that would be a waste of potions ingredients."

"But I haven't been taking it periodically," said Remus. "I was gone for most of the year, trying to track down Fenrir Greyback, I haven't taken it much—"

Severus shrugged. "So? It will cease to work after a while, so you might as well get used to having regular monthly raging fits once again."

Remus narrowed his eyes. _Why, you smug bastard, you like seeing me this way_. For an infinitesimal moment, the world seemed to close in on a small point of anger, and then the world spread out again and Remus looked up and saw Severus watching his face closely, in a scrutinising way. "Fine," he said tiredly. "As you say."

Severus smirked. Then his face grew more serious. "There's another reason anyway," he said. "My contacts and I are working on an agent to actually get rid of lycanthropy, and I don't want the Wolfsbane potion possibly dulling the effectiveness of that." Seeing the spark of hope and longing in Remus's eye, he quickly added, "And you'd better not tell Black or Potter, or anyone else for that matter," he said warningly. "Not even Albus."

"You haven't told Dumbledore about this?" Remus was stunned.

"I have only told him that I am working on a variation of the Wolfsbane potion. I don't want to burden him with more things to worry about," replied Severus curtly. "This is between you and me and my contacts, no-one else."

"And why shouldn't I tell Sirius or Harry? They deserve to know—"

"Lupin," said Severus, "you seem to be surprisingly ignorant of what your companions' reactions will be. Black will threaten to throttle me, whether or not the cure will work. Potter will know, and then he will let the Dark Lord know, and then I will have to justify my actions to the Dark Lord as to why I kept the information about lycanthropy from him." Severus fixed Remus with a glare which made Remus feel curiously small, and said, "Though I suppose I shouldn't have had such high expectations from _you_, Lupin."

Remus sighed. "Well, thank you for telling me," he said. "But what about my transformations? Sirius will be able to tell when I'm injured—"

"You will be using the Shrieking Shack again," said Severus flatly.

"Come again? The Shrieking Shack?"

"Yes, the Shrieking Shack. I'll be observing you." Remus's alarm must have showed on his face, because Severus snarled with irritation, "Not in person, how idiotic do you think I am, Lupin? Magical means, of course. You may console yourself with the belief that you are contributing, if you need to be consoled."

Remus decided not to bother to retort or argue; instead, he nodded slightly, then said, "Well, I hope you and your informants are successful with the project."

Severus only sneered, and turned to leave. "Hope?" he said over his shoulder. "Don't bother _hoping_, Lupin, I only do what I have to." Then he was gone.

_Really, he's being so morbid and cynical_, thought Remus as he returned to the birthday gathering. _No, that's too hard on him. He has to do so much… I doubt he has time for anything else. Certainly not birthday parties. It's a good thing he's so brilliant—otherwise we would be in dire straits for sure_.

**oOo**

Severus sighed and wearily rubbed the back of his head. The recalcitrant object in front of him was adamantly refusing to cooperate with him. He glared venomously at the gun, as though it would get up and do his bidding.

_You are too stressed, sometimes_, said Hogwarts.

_With good reason_, Severus returned, and pointed his wand at the gun; or, to be more precise, a group of small bullets next to it. "_Boulet Siolfor_!"

One of the bullets seemed to shiver, and a faint sheen of silver appeared on its surface.

_Are you supposed to be doing this_? Hogwarts asked with some trepidation. _You know that the Ministry has that Misuse of Muggle Artefacts Department_—

_They won't be able to detect what I'm doing, not with all the magic around here_. Severus repeated the incantation. "_Boulet Siolfor_!"

His Dark Mark twinged slightly on his left forearm. Severus quickly looked down to see the Mark momentarily darkening, dark against his skin. "Must be the Dark Lord summoning the others," he muttered.

Supposedly being the Dark Lord's spy within Hogwarts, which was practically a bastion of people against the Dark Lord, Severus had unusual leniency from the Dark Lord. Often, if others were summoned for some raid or attack, he was not. Granted, he knew he had that reprieve only because of the delicacy of his situation; in the Dark Lord's eyes, it was best not to lose the one firmly entrenched spy he had in Hogwarts by summoning him and perhaps causing suspicion to center around Severus. Severus wondered what the reason was for the Dark Lord to call most of his Death Eaters to his side.

_Do you think this would be effective enough_? He asked Hogwarts, his mind on the silver bullets.

_There's still not enough silver on there to fight off a werewolf_, the castle replied. _Look, Severus, you haven't been using all your magic_.

_What do you mean—oh_.

Severus had, over the course of the last few months, been suppressing his magical energy, which had been amplified by the merging of his two minds. He had needed to do so, because so much magic would have been extremely noticeable, and would have made others wary of his power. Now, he felt the slight boiling in him, the desperate _need_ for the magic to be released and flow freely. _And how will I shield it from others_… ? he asked pointedly.

_I will do it_, said Hogwarts confidently. _I'm the castle, of course I can shield your magic from letting anyone else feel it_.

_Fine, then_. Severus paused, and then began to remove the safeguards, the blocks to his magic. It wasn't so much exhausting as it was exhilarating; the magic moved within him, rising up, and he could feel the sparks dancing off of him. He lifted his right hand, and, pointing at the bullets, he thought, _I want a silver coating over all the bullets_.

The bullets lightened to a bright shiny silver colour.

Severus stared in astonishment. "Merlin," he murmured. "That makes it wandless and non-verbal _and_ no incantation needed."

_You're still holding back_, said Hogwarts disapprovingly. _Let go_.

Severus shivered, and raised the last shield.

The magic roared out from him, lethal, raging. He gasped and stumbled, falling to his knees as black fire flared in the room. It spread over the walls, flickering and jumping from point to point. It hissed, snarled, and then coalesced into the form of a phoenix. The magic was a coldly burning black conflagration, reveling in its newfound freedom.

It sang in his veins, it throbbed in his head, it danced before his eyes. The magic he held was free, and it was ruthless.

Severus tried to rein it back in, and found that he could not. A vague sense of panic came into him, and as it did, the magic shrieked and lashed out at everything.

_No! Stop_!

The fire died away; Severus knelt on the ground, breathing heavily. He ran his tongue over his lip, and tasted the coppery taste of blood. He had bitten his lower lip in his agitation, and he could feel the fast racing of his heart, still beating furiously. _Too much_, he said. _Too much_.

The magic was still there, Severus realised. Hogwarts was keeping it down. With a wary carefulness, he began to pull it back towards himself, an endless flow of fire, and set the metal bars around them again. Letting out a long breath, he said, _That was too much magic for me_.

_You have to learn how to control it_, said Hogwarts fretfully. _You have to. Perhaps you could practise with part of it at a time, you know. You could try that_.

Severus eyed the gun, which was resting on the table. _Very well_, he replied, and one steel bar disappeared from the magic's container. It cautiously nosed its way out like a curious badger, reaching out for what it had had a moment ago. _You will not be running around like a ridiculous, mindless delinquent_, snapped Snape, and he _willed_ it to take shape, to become a black fiery cloud that floated toward the gun. _Silence it_, thought Severus, and the gun rattled with a croaking noise before falling silent.

_Well_, said Hogwarts, _at least that worked_.

Nearly half an hour later, Severus had finally succeeded in charming the gun so that all the bullets would automatically replace themselves. He pinched the bridge of his nose tiredly, and said, _What time is it? I don't really want to do any target practice right now_.

_It's nine o'clock at night already_, answered Hogwarts. _Are you going to go to sleep_?

Severus felt very much like doing so, but he shook his head and replied, _No, I have some other matters to attend to_. He glanced over at the neat stack of ancient tomes he had nicked from the Black family library (after all, he had rationalised, Black certainly didn't want them.). He thought about reading through them, but his eyes burned with the exertion of the past half hour. _No_, he decided, _I'll send some of them to Wang Qin and Ming-yue. They at least have the time to research this information_.

_Are you sending it right now_?

_I suppose so_, Severus said. _Might as well take it down to the Great Hall fireplace to send it to them_. He rummaged through many of the miscellaneous items on one of his bookshelves, finally emerging with a large, slightly creased envelope—but appearances were deceiving, because the envelope had an expansion charm on it so it could hold more than it appeared to. Severus slipped the books in and firmly sealed the envelope.

Severus flung his thick black cloak over his shoulders, so that it stayed close to his thin frame. He left his rooms and strode through the corridors to the Great Hall. The sounds of his shoes slapping against the stones echoed around the empty spaces, and he felt suddenly alone.

_You're not alone_, Hogwarts said cheerfully. _I'm right here_.

_Well, of course, I'm literally standing _in _you_. Severus walked into the Great Hall, heading for the fireplace. Before he even came up to it, a fire had already sprung up in the fireplace, waiting obediently for him (no doubt, it was Hogwarts's doing.).

Severus took a pinch of silvery powder from a small crockery pot, painted silver and azure, and threw it into the fire, which wavered for a moment before fading to the colour of silver.

This was the nice thing about Hogwarts being a school, Severus thought. You didn't have to pay a fee to use the International Floo Mail Express—as a public institution, Hogwarts received the service as free, without any of those ridiculous fines and such.

He tossed the package into the fire and said, "The International Chinese Potions Institute of the Middle Kingdom, Jiaojiang, China."

The package vanished silently. _I hope they find those of use_, thought Severus as he went to the entrance door and wrenched it open. _Because they definitely have more time than me to work on it_. His Dark Mark twinged again, and Severus frowned down at his left forearm.

_Don't catch a cold now_, said Hogwarts as Severus stepped outside. The night's biting wind struck hard against Severus's face; his wand moved and he cast a warming charm on himself, alleviating his discomfort. Then he started walking towards the Forbidden Forest. He had promised to meet again with the centaur leader Lahir Cahadhwy, and tonight was as good a night as any.

**oOo**

Kingsley Shacklebolt was sprawled out in an armchair in his flat, reading a novel by Dorothea Wyatt. It was the sort of sordid romance story that Mrs Weasley would never have allowed any member of her family to read, but Dorothea Wyatt was a popular writer. Shacklebolt enjoyed her books thoroughly, although a cynical person would have questioned what he liked about them: the plot or the more physically explicit scenes…

The flames in his fireplace flared green, and Kingsley started up from his chair with surprise. "Ah! Oh, lo, Beckett."

The haggard face of Beckett Sumner looked back at him. "Kingsley!" he gasped. "It's an emergency! Get to the Ministry right now!"

Kingsley was already throwing his book to the side. "Why? What's happening?"

Beckett Sumner's face was pale. "Hogsmeade's under attack!"

**oOo**

And thus the chapter ends... Thank you to all my reviewers.

If anyone has picked up on the words of the "Coventry Carol"—Voldemort, much like Herod, went after little baby boys (Harry and Neville) and tried to kill them.

_Boulet Siolfor_: "Boulet" is French for "small ball," "Siolfor" Old English for silver.

I can appreciate nothing more than reviews. Praise and concrit welcomed.

Talriga


	8. Chapter 8

See Ch. 1 for disclaimer.

Sorry about the nearly week long wait. I'm sad to say that I didn't make it into the finals of the piano competition this weekend... but I've consoled myself with the fact that I happened to beat one of the three finalists in another (!) piano competition the weekend before, when I was the winner.

And now, without further ado, let me present:

**Chapter 8**

For the students of Hogwarts, the Forbidden Forest was an enigma. The very name seemed to whisper of secrets and hidden intrigues. Forbidden, Albus Dumbledore said every year at the start-of-year feast. Forbidden to students. Forbidden, and that was the rule, the law.

Severus Snape was much more familiar with the Forest than most. He took regular forays amidst the trees, although he was never one to admire the scenery. For him, the Forest was usually just a road, a path to an isolated clearing where he would then raise his wand (_juniper and dragon heartstring, eleven inches, very intense and formidable_, Ollivander had said to an eleven year old Severus) and Apparate to the Dark Lord's side. Otherwise, he gathered rare potions ingredients, those that grew in the Forest and were rarely found at the apothecary.

Tonight, he felt much more at leisure, as he walked in the quiet night. Occasionally, there was the rustle of leaves as a faint night breeze whistled through the tree branches, which made strange shadows upon the ground. The darkness was there, of course, the calm, mysterious, unknowledgeable darkness, forming in dusk and night and pitch dark black—but Severus was not one who minded that. He had been in darkness for nearly all of his life—it was his native land, in a way that the bright light of ridiculous laughter and outright silliness had never been.

He moved through the brush quietly. He felt the slight lessening of pressure between his shoulder blades as he stepped out of the boundaries of Hogwarts's wards. Hogwarts murmured, _We're outside the wards now, Severus. Be careful_.

_I have been careful for more than half my life_, responded Severus, subvocalising the words in his throat. _I do not see why this should be any different_. He came to the edge of a moonlit clearing, and looked about.

_Nothing's ever the same_, was Hogwarts's reply, and then the castle retreated from the forefront of Severus's mind, to return and devote her attention to the safety of those within her.

Severus heard the crackle of twigs, and calmly turned around. A young centaur stood behind him; curly, tangled brown hair framed his square jawed face, and piercing black eyes passed over him, methodically and slowly. "Severus Snape," he said, and even though he spoke the words quietly, the greeting was clear and ringing in the night air. "I am Fionn. Lahir Cahadhwy asked me to take you to him, so the two of you may speak." He fell silent, and watched him.

The Potions Master simply nodded and stepped forward. He had learned over time that the centaurs had their own way of speaking, of calm, careful words and cool thoughts and expressions that said more than actual words. Some people (_such as Dolores Umbridge_, Severus thought nastily) took that as proof that centaurs were slow-witted and dull, unable to say anything other than brief sentences about the planets and stars. That was a perception which was utterly false.

He knew, also, that his situation was rare—perhaps even one of a kind. The centaurs who lived near the outskirts of the Forbidden Forest, like Bane and Magorian and Firenze (or at least, he once had done so), those that Rubeus Hagrid, as part of his job as groundskeeper, knew and recognised—those were the ones who were actually assigned the job to guard the centaurs from human interference. They spoke in riddles, in annoyingly cryptic circles around and around and around, flaunting their distaste for human beings as much as some humans flaunted their distaste for them. They were so experienced at doing their job so that the Centaur Liaison Office at the Ministry had become the most well known place for Ministry workers whose careers had come to a stop. For a human to be allowed to meet with the Lahir—well, Severus wondered if anyone else even knew who the centaur leader was, or even the name of his position.

He ducked under a low hanging branch and idly brushed a leaf off of the right sleeve of his black robes. In front of him, Fionn's trotting began to slow down, and finally he halted and stepped to the side. "Go," he said. "The Lahir is waiting for you." He backed away into the dark shadows, before turning around and cantering off.

Severus stepped into a pool of moonlight shining upon the forest floor. Amongst the gnarled, older trees and soft grass, he saw Lahir Cahadhwy. He stood there, watching Severus levelly with his light grey eyes. For a moment, he reminded Severus of a marble statue, half in and half out of the shadows. Then the muscles in his body rippled as he moved forward, and said, in perfect English, "Severus Snape."

"Lahir Cahadhwy," Severus replied, meeting his gaze without flinching. He had dealt often enough with the Lahir as the Dark Lord's prisoner once before; he could do it with the Lahir free in the Forbidden Forest.

Lahir Cahadhwy lowered his head slightly, in a small nod. He angled his head to the side, and then said, "Yes. Mars is bright tonight."

Severus knew that Cahadhwy did not mean it in the literal sense; any half-wit, even an idiotic Ministry drone, would have known what he meant. _The red light of war_, he thought, _and the green light of Avada Kedavra. Green and red makes dead_. He suppressed a grim smile. _Green and red makes dead_… "It will become bright for a very long time," he answered. "And it will shine more brightly than before."

The faintest trace of a ghostly smile appeared on Cahadhwy's face. "Ah, yes," he said, "but what do you consider your before, Professor? Which set of memories do you refer to?"

Severus raised his head. "Both."

Cahadhwy gave him a slanted look. "Red Mars," he murmured. "So prevalent." He turned sharply to the side. "Come," he said.

Severus walked over to him and stood next to Cahadhwy. They both stood there, staring deep into the Forest. "You want us to fight," Cahadhwy said suddenly.

"What else would I have come for?" Severus asked. "I want it, of course. I do not demand it, I ask it."

"And do we have any choice?" said Cahadhwy abruptly, swinging around to look at Severus. "We have been ignored and belittled by the Ministry, and the Umbridge woman called us half-breeds, although we are neither human nor horse, we are centaurs and we all are magical, more so than you humans. The Dark Lord ignores us as well—he did not attack us at all throughout his first rise years ago."

"You saw my memories," Severus countered. "He destroyed the Forest, he ruined it so no-one could live in it. You saw what became of yourself."

"And lower ourselves to fighting with humans?"

"Lower?" said Severus. "I was never aware that there was a higher or a lower."

Cahadhwy eyed him for a moment, and then he smiled. "You are a clever one, Professor," he said. "You catch up quickly."

"I have had plenty of years of experience," Severus said truthfully. Well, not quite truthfully—he had spoken with the other Lahir Cahadhwy for only half a year before the Lahir had finally been killed, the last of the centaurs of the Forbidden Forest. But he had had years to at least think about it.

"And there was no need for you to ask," said the Lahir promptly. "You knew, already, that I would have said yes."

"Yes."

"And what shall you do when the Forest—not Hogwarts, but this forest, which is our home and we love with our hearts and souls—what shall you do when the Forest is attacked?"

"I will aid you. The castle will as well."

Cahadhwy nodded again; Severus had evidently passed his test, full of twists and turns. Severus had heard the trap in his words. If he had said, "I will defend the Forest," he would have subconsciously assumed that the centaurs could not defend without him. By the promise of aid, he gave help when the centaurs needed it, and not more than they needed. The centaurs, after all, were fiercely proud beings. Their words, Severus had long ago recognised, hid more than they appeared to acknowledge. Theirs was a swift, silent sword fight he fully appreciated—the subtle insinuations, the sudden, almost Gryffindor in a way blunt statements that caught others off guard. The feints and the thrusts.

"Very well," said Cahadhwy. "And one more thing, Professor. There is something the Forest hates in here. Let out your magic, and you will know what I feel. That is the last task I want you to do, as part of our agreement—to rid the forest of that which is slowly poisoning it."

Within Severus's mind, a vague sense of suspicion sprang into being. Severus looked down at himself and drew in a sharp, quick breath. "As you ask," he said delicately, and once again slowly relaxed the shields around his magic. It rushed out in a breathlessly joyful way, the by now familiar black flames flying towards the ground, rustling the fallen leaves, and making little patterns on the forest floor.

"Your magic sings," said Lahir Cahadhwy, and Severus looked sharply at the centaur leader to see him with a curious expression on his face. "It has been imprisoned for a long time."

"I know it has," Severus said. "But it was necessary."

"Necessary," said Cahadhwy. "Anything can be necessary, once you want it enough. You would prefer not to let your magic free, because otherwise you might have the possibility of losing control, and you do not like that, do you, Professor?"

If anyone had been watching the two figures, they might have noticed the slight stiffening of Severus's jaw, the way his eyes stared in a strained way straight ahead. But Severus knew that he would not lie, not lie to an ally. He said, "No, I do not." _I do not like losing control_, he thought, _and that is the truth. If I lost control of myself, if I did not watch my every move and check anything that might mark me as contrary to a Death Eater, I would be dead by now_.

_But you still struggle_, said Hogwarts suddenly, and Severus nearly started in surprise. The castle continued, _How can you live, if you lock away a part of yourself_?

_I have lived well enough for decades_, said Severus.

The Lahir had been silent for a while, but now he turned his head to say to Severus, in the centaur language, that which tasted of moonbeams and subtle shadings on the tongue, _You have your magic, whether you like it or not. Let it out—I ask it of you, as one ally asks another_.

Severus sighed, and released the pressure he still had left on his shields. His magic rose like a glittering black fire, bathing the trees in its darkly brilliant glow. It spread outward, like water spilling out of an overfilling cup and continuing to flow and flow and flow—

And then his magic _cried_, and cringed away from something. Even as the question came to Severus's mind as to what that _something_ was (but he already knew the answer, _don't I_? he thought to himself), he could already guess as to why.

The flames had fetched up against a taint, a vile poison that seemed to bleed with a sense which Severus could only describe as _wrongness_. Just as nature hated to flow from low to high, pushing itself beyond its limits, and he hated the lies that he always said and flawlessly executed (so much that sometimes he could not tell the difference from the truth, because at that very moment, his lie would _be_ truth to him), so the Forest and magic and everything else hated the _wrongness_. It felt oddly familiar, Severus thought, and then he remembered a ring, and his notes, and a memory—not of the time he lived in now, but a time that was years in the future, and which he never wanted to happen, not to him again, not to anyone else—and knew _why_.

"I feel it," he said, and wasn't surprised to see that Lahir Cahadhwy did not ask what it was that he felt. The Lahir remained silent. The centaurs had always felt it there, lingering on the edges of their consciousness, its malice and bitterness poisoning the air around them. Severus wondered why no-one else had ever felt it before, and then a thought came to him, so stunning and yet at the same time he knew it was true: _I have more magic, more than Albus. That's why I sense it_. The centaurs were one with the Forest, they knew innately, their magic knew innately. It was the wizards and witches who were too busy with their lives, who ignored the signs from the Forest and carried on with their lives. _What would they think_, thought Severus, _if they knew a part of the Dark Lord rested so close to Hogwarts? The Dark Lord must think it most ironic. How could Albus have not known? How could Hogwarts have not known_?

The castle spoke up in his mind, bristling slightly. _My magical awareness only extends as far as the wards, and then down to Hogsmeade_, she said defensively. _Outside of that, I can feel nothing. I am not there, I cannot feel anything in the deeper parts of the Forest_.

_I'm not blaming you_, said Severus quickly. _But then—Merlin, then it needs to be destroyed_—

_No_! Severus was taken aback at Hogwarts's vehemence in the words. _You only know what it is, you don't know how to destroy it_!

_Albus and I destroyed the ring_—

_Tom Riddle_, said Hogwarts, and her voice was all at once angry and sorrowful—angry that one of her former students had turned against her and what she stood for, and sorrowful that it had happened in the first place. _He learned so much twisted, corrupted magic—you know he put different safeguards around his Horcruxes, and you don't know what he did for this. Remember Albus's hand_?

Severus was ominously silent. _Fine, as you wish_, he said finally. _But to have it so close to here, right next to you_—

_Don't you think I hate it now too? Now that I know what lies so close to me_? retorted Hogwarts. _But will you act like a foolhardy idiot_?

_Gryffindor_?

_No, just an idiot in general_. Severus could practically hear Hogwarts fuming. _You are being foolish, if you get killed, who will know what is coming_—

She fell silent.

_What is it_? Severus asked quickly. A feeling of uneasiness was rising in his throat, and he tried to swallow down the bile that was threatening to overcome him. _What _is _it_? he asked more urgently.

When the castle finally answered, it was more of a strangled cry than it was a coherent sentence. _Death Eaters. And Dementors_, she replied. _Dementors—in Hogsmeade. Oh_… she trailed off.

Severus looked down sharply at his left forearm. Although his robes covered his skin, he could still feel the very faint soreness, and now he knew why the Dark Lord had called his followers tonight. _And it is Potter's birthday as well_, he realised. _The Dark Lord has always had a different sense of celebration than that of others_.

He raised his head to look at Lahir Cahadhwy, who was watching him steadily. "Lahir," said Severus, his voice unwavering, "The village of Hogsmeade is under attack."

Cahadhwy nodded. "Yes."

Severus watched him carefully. Cahadhwy moved forward slowly and looked at Severus. "We hold true to our agreements," he said. "We will be there."

Severus's eyes lingered on the centaur leader for a moment longer, as though confirming Cahadhwy's words, and then he was turning and running off through the forest, to the outskirts of Hogsmeade.

**oOo**

As soon as Beckett had pulled his head out of the fire, Kingsley Shacklebolt came tumbling out, his robes slightly askew. "Where's the others?" Kingsley asked.

"Follow me," Beckett answered, and ran over to one of the many doors lining the corridor. He opened it hastily and hurried in.

Beckett's eyes flew quickly over the many Aurors already gathered. All of their faces were grim, their expressions tense. They were all dressed in the trademark dark blue robes of an Auror, short sleeves halfway to the wrist. They stood in groups of five—it was one of the types of fighting formations for the Aurors: five in a circle, facing outward, called the open battle formation. They knew each other's quirks, tendencies, habits, and utilised them to the best of their ability when fighting.

As Kingsley rushed over to Squad Eight, Beckett took his place in Squad Seven. This room was the debriefing room, and the room was completely silent as Head Auror Gawain Robards's voice rang out, amplified by the Sonorus charm.

"Aurors," said Gawain, his words brisk and efficient. He was a good Head, Beckett thought. "Hogsmeade is being attacked by Death Eaters and Dementors from this direction." He pointed his wand at the wall and a map of the vicinity of Hogsmeade appeared. He flicked his wand again, and a myriad of black and grey dots blinked into existence on the map. Beckett scanned the map thoroughly. The dots were approaching Hogsmeade rapidly, the magical village sandwiched between the attacking forces and the Forbidden Forest. Gawain spoke again, "I know this is usually open battle, but considering the Dementors, change to dementor formation."

The Aurors hastily reassembled themselves. Beckett cursed himself for being able to cast the Patronus charm _very_ well, and went to one of the lines in the front, Line Two. Those bloody Dementors… he scowled and tightened his grip on his wand. Of course, all Aurors were required to be able to perform the Patronus charm, but still…

"Line One and Two, stationed near the Forbidden Forest—that's where most of the Dementors are. Three and Four, at the Three Broomsticks. Five and Six, at the beginning of the path up to Hogwarts. Everyone else, we're going by the Hog's Head. Portkeys to the side, Aurors. Good luck."

In a smooth movement, every Auror in the room surrounded a series of Portkeys. "Activate!" was the combined cry, and then Beckett was near the Forbidden Forest and he could _feel_ the coldness. He turned to see the Dementors floating off towards to Hogsmeade—_no, no, they're supposed to stay here, they can't get to the village, they'll finish it off_—and suddenly the flash of black robes—

"_Avada Kedavra_!"

Beckett nearly stumbled and ducked out of the way of a sizzling Killing Curse, which struck a tree behind him, charring the bark. He returned the favour with a gasped, "_Suffauc_!"

The Suffocating spell was neatly blocked by the masked Death Eater's _Protego_ shield, although he narrowly dodged one of Owen Zanar's hexes. Beckett fell back and quickly ran an eye over his situation: about fifteen Death Eaters surrounding the ten Aurors. He felt a brief burst of frustration in his heart. _Great, we're outnumbered_ and _we have the Dementors out for us_…

Next to him, Kingsley Shacklebolt shouted, "_Stupefy_!" Beckett grabbed him by the shoulder and quickly jerked him out of the path of "_Fresnan_!" Kingsley coughed as the blue light brushed against his right sleeve, and as he swung around, Beckett saw that ice crystals hung from the cloth, the results of a barely missed Freezing Curse.

"Thanks, Beckett," said Kingsley, scrambling to maintain his balance. They both turned as one to a Death Eater approaching behind Jacqueline Asterbury and roared, "_Stupefy_!"

As the two jets of red light struck the Death Eater in the chest and he crumpled to the ground, Jacqueline, seemingly undisturbed by the fracas, shot off a succession of hexes at another masked figure, who was hit in the shoulder by one of them and staggered in pain.

Beckett made a quick mental count—_two Death Eaters down_, he noted—and then his eyes rested on an twitching bundle of blue cloth, Edward Bates lying on the ground, trying desperately to stem the flow of blood from a gash in his leg which reached all the way to the cold white bone, and he thought, _one Auror down_. He gave a savage twist to his wand, and his non-verbal _Expelliarmus_ rushed toward another one of the Death Eaters, who stepped out of the way and yelled in a slightly accented voice, "_Cytan_!"

Beckett snapped out, "_Protego_!" and the mild Cutting Curse bounced off his shield, slashing into another tree nearby.

"We've got to get to Hogsmeade!" Owen screamed over the furious spell casting. "The Dementors—my god, the Dementors, they'll swamp them if we don't get them off!"

The fight was drawing closer to the village. Over the heads of his opponents, Beckett could see a fire burning, and shadowy figures darting from building to building. The Death Eaters, backing away from the small group of Aurors, suddenly surged forward in a concentrated effort that left Daisy Faune motionless on the ground and Jeffrey Kuge bleeding from a multitude of cuts on his chest. He stumbled several steps, and then collapsed. His blood spurted upon the ground, staining the grass dark crimson.

_Three Death Eaters down, three Aurors down. We're even_.

As he fired off another "_Stupefy_!" at a Death Eater, Beckett had the sinking feeling that they would not fare well in this encounter. There simply weren't enough Aurors to combat the fifty or so Death Eaters that had attacked Hogsmeade. Then his train of thought was abruptly cut off as a "_Crucio_!" struck him in the stomach, and he screamed.

There could be no coherent thoughts under a Cruciatus Curse, except perhaps wishing for the pain to stop. Beckett crumpled under the pain which the body felt, the signals running to his mind, to where he felt only _the knives, stabbing and slicing and breaking through his skin and the hotness madness pain pain pain that never ends, will never end, and it is all he knows and feels and he screams screams screams and his mind will explode_—

He lay gasping on the ground, his ribs aching and his mind still inwardly moaning. A shadow fell across him, and he looked up and saw Jacqueline Asterbury, her light brown hair falling across her face as she turned and deflected a curse that would only have prolonged the torture. "_Confundo_!" she snapped with a flick of her wand, and the Death Eater lurched slightly in confusion before Jacqueline finished him off with a "_Stupefy_!"

_Four Death Eaters down, four Aurors down. _I'm_ down_.

He knew that he couldn't get up, even if he was trying his best. Frissons of pain still shook his body, and his face twisted into a ugly grimace. As the fighting momentarily shifted away from them, Jacqueline knelt down—her eyes still darting around, ready for any suspicious movement—and put her hand on Beckett's chest. "Beckett," she said fiercely, "you stay here. Don't bother, we'll take care of the others, you don't need to strain yourself."

A gasp escaped his throat, ragged from screaming. Beckett looked past her kneeling body, saw the others still fighting. _Eleven Death Eaters, six Aurors. How can we fight that many_—

And then a loud, ringing _twang_ sliced through the air and he saw a Death Eater falling to the ground, his eyes still wide in surprise, an arrow protruding from his heart. Then there was the drumming sound of hooves, and he turned his head slightly, and he was stunned.

A group of centaurs, their bows held ready with arrows fitted, were charging down on the Death Eaters. Their faces were emotionless, still and without expression. But they galloped towards the Death Eaters, their bows directed at them, and the Death Eaters, also surprised, turned and, without fully thinking, fled the centaurs, the centaurs who never ever participated in battles between the Death Eaters and the Aurors, but who now were.

And they were gone, leaving behind a group of tired Aurors who knew that they should be chasing the Dementors, yet could not do it—not yet…

Kingsley Shacklebolt got up and walked wearily over to Jacqueline and him, the others doubling back to help the wounded—and gather the dead. Beckett remembered blonde haired Daisy Faune, face down in the dirt, her long curls in disarray around her cold body. He wondered if Edward Bates and Jeffrey Kuge were all right.

"I wonder why the centaurs came?" Jacqueline muttered in a quizzical tone, her blue eyes following the path the denizens of the Forbidden Forest had taken. "They've never intervened in battles before…" Her breath came in slow, tiring gasps.

"Who knows?" Kingsley said; then shrugged; finally, frowned in vague consternation.

"Who—" Beckett's voice felt strangely raw and ragged to his own ears. Despite Jacqueline's better efforts, he managed to struggle and sit up. "The casualties?" he croaked. _The casualties_. He winced inwardly at the emotionless way he had said it. _The casualties_. Now they'd be nothing more than numbers, and people would never remember that they had once been alive, and laughed, and spoke, and loved, and hated, and cried—and fought.

Kingsley's face was bleak and a little bitter with anger. "Daisy and Jeff," he said harshly. "That damned Fudge, it's all his fault! If we only had more Aurors—but he halted the training program a few years back, and we haven't had a single new Auror since the class of 1994."

"Not just Fudge," said Jacqueline. "Damn them all." Her voice was more tired than furious. "You-Know-Who. The Death Eaters. And Scrimgeour, he doesn't understand, cooped up behind his desk and everything. He's not one of _us_ anymore, he doesn't understand—"

She broke off abruptly, her usually glowing face paling to the colour of ivory—to the expression of fear. And Beckett felt the cool breeze, the wintry chill. And he heard his worst memories in his mind.

The Death Eaters had gone, sprinting off down to Hogsmeade, chased by the centaurs. But their allies had not simply retreated. The hooded Dementors came again, their ragged coverings fluttering with the cold, their long skeletal fingers reaching out towards the Aurors.

Kingsley whirled around, his wand pointed straight at the former guards of Azkaban. "_Expecto Patronum_!" he shouted, and a silver kingfisher flew out of the tip of his wand. But it was a little hazy and unclear, disappearing within the minute.

Beckett could feel the coldness, the fear coming over him. "Jacqueline," he said. "The Dementors…" His fingers curled around his wand, and he shivered.

Jacqueline cast the Patronus charm, her hand shaking slightly, but her large hare dissipated quickly as well. There were too many Dementors, Beckett realised. Too many, many more than they had ever encountered at Azkaban. "_Expecto Patronum_," he whispered weakly.

His jackal Patronus did not even so much as materialise.

"_Beckett! Where's Alix?"_

"_Alix? I don't know, Mum—"_

_His mother looked out through the window, and screamed, her mouth open with horror._

_Beckett saw his younger sister, four years old and never to be older, and would see it for the rest of his life. Lying face down in the nearby pond, her dark brown hair floating out around her in a wet aureole, her body limp and unresponding_—

"_Expecto Patronum_," Jacqueline and Kingsley said together. Except it was more of a desperate moan instead of an incantation, and they were both down, crumpling under the onslaught of memories, those that were the worst…

_Daisy Faune's body was on the ground, and rivulets of blood flowed freely from Jeffrey Kuge, who was crumpled and bent over, gasping for breath, and Beckett tore his eyes away, could not look on his friends' bodies without leaning down to try and help them, and so he did not look at them at all_—

The black dots appeared in front of Beckett's eyes. "_Expecto_—" he croaked. "_Expec_—"

Someone behind him roared, "_EXPECTO PATRONUM_!"

And Beckett saw black fire, and then there was only darkness.

**oOo**

Severus had fully expected his usual silver cobra to unfold from the tip of his wand and drive away the Dementors—he could do this, he reasoned, especially since he couldn't sense any Death Eaters nearby who would be able to see him doing so.

He forgot about why he was now able to sense a Death Eater, if there or not, and about his magic, still rising in gleaming jet black layers around him.

Instead, he thought of Hogwarts, and of Albus, and how he was alive, and that here, in this place and time, the Order was still fighting, and of how the Dark Lord had not yet won.

"_EXPECTO PATRONUM_!"

Black fire erupted—not from his wand, he would later realise—but from his own body, streaming towards the Dementors, who, if it were possible for Dementors to wheel about sharply on their nonexistent feet, did so and fled.

The fire _screamed_, a piercing cry of triumph and victory, and now Severus saw that it was not a cobra, it was a black phoenix, a silver mist around it outlining the bird against the sky, fiery flames spreading out for its wings and tail feathers, and glowing silver orbs for eyes. It swooped down on the Dementors, its claws outstretched—

And there was an audible, keening wail as its talons dug into them, and a hazy blackness seemed to form around them, before they simply… dissipated into the air, even as vague white shapes rose from the spot where they had been, and drifted off.

The phoenix cried again, its head swinging around fluidly to meet Severus's startled black eyes with its own shining silver ones, before it raced across the sky towards Hogsmeade, a gleaming, ethereal comet which dove into the fray.

In the frozen seconds that followed, Severus suddenly heard a weak voice. "What—who—"

He looked over at the fallen Aurors, and saw Kingsley Shacklebolt, raising his head and gazing straight at him.

In that moment, Severus thought, _No, Albus can't find out about this, he'll ask me about it, and I'll have to tell him, and he'll know that I killed him_—

_Stupefy_, he murmured in his mind, and the red light struck Kingsley Shacklebolt in the chest. The black Auror crumpled to the ground again.

_Did he see me_?

_No_, said Hogwarts abruptly. _It was dark. He could not see you_.

Severus turned and darted back into the Forbidden Forest, low hanging branches tearing at him. Several minutes later, he emerged back onto Hogwarts grounds, brushing away some crinkled leaves that had attached themselves to his robes.

He managed to make his way down to his rooms without a single person seeing him—_thank Merlin for that_—and collapsed into one of his chairs. "What happened?" he said aloud, somewhat dazed. "My Patronus—"

_Your magic_, said the castle. _It was free. And you had it under control—you asked it to get rid of the Dementors, and it did_.

_Got rid of the Dementors_?

_Didn't you realise that? They were made out of wild magic, and your magic simply destroyed them_.

_I did that_. Severus's words were more stunned than they were affirmative to Hogwarts's statement.

_Your magic is twice that of a normal wizard, and you had let it go, you let it outside your shields. You had the power to do so. I do not think it would have happened if you had kept your magic bound_.

_Oh_, Severus said silently. _I—I thought it would be normal. My Patronus—it was a cobra_—

_Normal? Not anymore. How could it be, especially after what you have been th_rough?

Severus shivered. _Albus's death_? he asked. He knew that he had not cast the Patronus Charm after the headmaster's death, because he had never been in the close vicinity near Dementors—he had stayed in Castellum Serpens and done research at the Dark Lord's bidding. He had not thought—that it could change—

_Yes. Of course it would change_.

Severus said tersely, _Yes_. And he began to rebuild his shields around his magic. After the end of the attack, there would be an Order meeting, and he would have to be there and listen. His magic seemed unhappy as he pulled it back from having it meander around his rooms, but it sulkily acquiesced to his control, in the manner of a sullen baby put back into its crib.

_I must be more careful_, thought Severus. _I did not think about what it could do_—

_Now I have to, or otherwise I will attract attention, from everyone in the Order and the Dark Lord, and the Order members will be suspicious of me_—if they aren't already—and the Dark Lord's attention—it does not necessarily mean his attention is beneficial.

And Severus brought another shield down firmly, caging his magic.

**oOo**

It was in the early hours of morning, August first.

"Kingsley, I hope that the Aurors are all right."

"They're fine," said Kingsley curtly. The Order was gathered around the long table in 12 Grimmauld Place, most of the members watching him and Nymphadora Tonks with anxious concern. "Of course, never mind the fact that some are dead."

To his right, Tonks put her hand on his right arm soothingly, and picked up where he had left off. Her hair was dark brown, her eyes dark blue, and her eyebrows were drawn downward in thought, giving her a very serious look at odds with her bubbly personality. "Gawain Robards called us in," she began quietly. "We Portkeyed to Hogsmeade—I was part of the team at the Three Broomsticks." She closed her eyes briefly. Albus eyed her with concern.

Tonks opened her eyes again. They were black. "It was utter pandemonium," she said. "Practically the moment we got there, they were firing at us. One of the Death Eaters was setting people on fire. I remember Summoning a girl to me, out of the way of a Killing Curse. Just in time. She barely made it. And then—" She shook her head. "Just fighting," she said. "Kingsley…"

"Two of the Aurors with me were killed," Kingsley added. "And then the centaurs came."

Albus sat up straighter. He'd already heard some confusing accounts about what had happened at Hogsmeade from some of the Order members as they slowly straggled back to headquarters, all a jumble about centaurs and a black phoenix. "Yes, the centaurs," he said quietly. "What happened?"

"They came," said Kingsley heavily. "And they drove the Death Eaters away, all the way down into Hogsmeade. I don't know why—"

Farther down the table, Remus Lupin shifted in his seat. "It could have been because they were near the Forbidden Forest," he offered hesitantly. "I mean, since it's their home…"

Alastor Moody snorted. "Don't be ridiculous," he barked. "If that was why, then a lot more Ministry representatives would be traumatised than there are. And they don't involve themselves in conflicts like ours—they don't care."

"Well, maybe they do now—"

"Bollocks. There's definitely something more to this."

"Alastor," Albus said. "Please. We need to get the facts straight about what actually happened at Hogsmeade. Kingsley, please continue."

"All right. The centaurs were shooting at the Death Eaters with bow and arrows, getting them away. Well, I went back a bit to get the other Aurors—"

Moody interrupted, "When you should have been chasing after the Dementors?"

Albus saw Kingsley bristle slightly. "We couldn't see them yet," he said defensively. "Besides, not like we could have done much about it anyway, considering what happened afterwards. Because the Dementors came back towards us—there were too many, there were never that many at Azkaban. I mean, our Auror training did require us to perform a corporeal Patronus, but there were so many Dementors…" He shivered. "None of us could do it," he admitted. "I suppose that's something the Department will have to work on, summoning up stronger Patronii, but anyhow… none of us could do it. We blacked out, all of us." He reached with his left hand up to his ear, and absent mindedly tugged at his golden hoop earring.

"And…" Albus prompted as kindly as he could.

Kingsley was frowning to himself. "The next thing I remember," he said, "is hearing the Patronus Charm—in a sort of muddled way, you know—and looking up and seeing this… black fire flying overhead. I couldn't make out what it was, and I looked around and I saw this person, standing some ways off. I think it was a man—when he said '_Expecto Patronum_,' his voice sounded like a man's voice—but, well, you can never be certain. And I—well, my mind wasn't too clear at that moment. I said something—" He furrowed his brow, trying to recall the night's events. "I think it was asking him what the fire was, or who he was, and he didn't reply. And then he _Stupefied_ me. And that's all."

Albus nodded, and turned his attention to Tonks. "Tonks?" he asked patiently. "You were down in Hogsmeade. If you could…"

For the first time througout that night, a small smile appeared on Tonks's face. "Oh yes, I remember," she said, almost grinning. "That black fire Kingsley talked about—it was a huge black phoenix. There was a sort of silvery mist around it, so I suppose it was a Patronus in a way, except it was black. And it sort of swooped down upon the Death Eaters, and blocked their view of us, so we managed to get in a few good curses when that happened, even though we were shocked as hell. And then it flew towards us and past us…" Her voice trailed off, her eyes still open, visualising what had happened.

She blinked suddenly, and continued, "There were Dementors behind us, that's why. Kingsley, I don't think you saw this, but, good Merlin, that was no ordinary Patronus. It didn't drive the Dementors away—it ripped them apart. I think—I think the phoenix killed them. It tore them to pieces."

Bill Weasley sputtered a little. "Kill Dementors?" he asked incredulously. "Is that even possible?"

Tonks looked a little annoyed. "That's what I think happened," she said, her voice a little hard. "Why can't that be true?"

"Tonks," Albus interrupted gently, "I have my Pensieve with me." He had thought that perhaps it might be of use in piecing together the fight, and had brought it along with him. With a flick of his wand, a cabinet opened and his silver Pensieve hovered in the air, slowly coming over to the table and setting itself down with an audible clunk. "Perhaps you might show us, instead."

The young Auror nodded, and brought the tip of her wand to her right temple. A thin drop of what looked like liquid silver appeared at the tip, and she held it over the Pensieve, watching as it fell into the misty depths of the basin. "There," she said seriously. "There you go."

A mist rose up from the surface of the Pensieve, solidifying so that it showed a group of Dementors, floating slowly forward—and then, abruptly, a screech sounded, and a flaming black phoenix drove straight into them. As the Order watched, shocked into silence, the blackened tatters of the Dementors' coverings fell apart, and pearly white vapours rose from their remnants.

"What are those?" Hestia Jones asked haltingly.

Albus rested his elbows on the table top and steepled his fingers together. "They appear to be souls," he said thoughtfully, as the white mist finally dispersed and faded. Behind them, the black phoenix soared upward again, black flames still streaming from it. He looked at the faces of the Order members sitting at the long rectangular table.

All of them were full of astonishment, eyes set upon Tonks's memory playing out above the Pensieve. All of them, except—

Severus, who sat a few chairs down, looking flatly at the Pensieve memory. His face was impassive, black eyes shuttered like the shutters of a window in a long abandoned house. He shifted slightly in his chair, and as Albus discreetly observed him, a wedge of shadow fell over his face, obscuring the upper half of his face. But Albus noticed that his mouth was thinned and his lips pressed together tightly, the only sign of emotion Severus showed. He thought, Strange. Severus seems to be worried about this.

"Severus?" he said, and blinked when Severus made a small start in his seat. "You told me the Dark Lord summoned all of his followers right after that. Did he say anything…?"

Severus seemed to recover his composure, and shook his head. "Besides flying into a rage, no, he knew nothing about the centaurs or the phoenix. Although now he is swearing he will kill whoever called up the phoenix and destroyed his allies. He did not spend much time on that, only a few minutes to rant at us and then order us to go away." He spoke succinctly and flatly.

"Well, then, whoever that person is, I think I like him," Alastor grumbled, his magical eye resting on Severus with blatant suspicion. "If your information is correct, that is. You didn't know about the attack, I'm assuming." The tone of his voice implied that he was sure Severus had known.

Severus did not say anything.

Instead, he stared down at the table and the wood grains. Albus had the strange feeling that he was not really looking at it, though—his eyes were unseeing. In any case… "Alastor," he said chidingly, "Severus has always been proved correct with his spying…"

"Once a Death Eater, always a Death Eater," growled Alastor again.

Remus Lupin frowned. "Really, now, that's being too extreme," he said.

Albus expected Severus to make an acidic retort, but he did not say anything.

Albus suppressed the urge to sigh and put his head in his hands wearily. _What could I tell you about him, Alastor_? he thought silently to himself. _What do you mean by him once being a Death Eater? He was working against Lord Voldemort long before he became a Death Eater, and I could show you all the evidence, except then his life would be at risk, and then I could not forgive myself if he were killed because I told_. Sometimes he wanted to tell, to allay the suspicions that would always fall upon Severus, but then there was the chance that the information would get to the Dark Lord, and then he would know just how long Severus had been working against him and spying against him, and then Severus would die. So, instead, Albus said patiently, with the manner of voice which said that he had said the same words many times over, "Alastor, please."

The rest of the table was silent as well, and Albus could feel the most of their sentiments being directed against Severus. "Alastor," he said, his voice stronger and firmer, "do not question Severus's loyalties. He has proven himself time and time again." He saw in the faces of the others that they were unconvinced, that they would still continue to watch him carefully, but that they would not say their suspicions out loud like Moody always did, in deference to Albus's authority. So he said, "I trust him with my life."

Almost idly, his gaze wandered momentarily to Severus's face, silent and unyielding, and he was surprised to see Severus's eyes closed, as though trying to block out some unwanted memory.

Alastor snorted. "Fine, then," he said harshly. "Have it your way, Albus."

Albus hated to end the meeting on such a sour note, but it had to be done. The others needed to get their sleep. He watched Alastor critically for a moment longer, and then nodded. "This meeting is adjourned," he said, rising to his feet. "Thank you for coming, everyone."

As the Order members began to file out of the room, Albus walked over to Severus. "I'm sorry," he murmured in a low voice. "I'm very sorry, about everyone suspecting you like this. I'm sorry." Sorry was not enough, he felt, but it was all he could say.

Severus said, his voice devoid of any nuance in tone, "So—you trust me with your life?"

"Of course I do." _You are thinking of Draco Malfoy's task, aren't you, Severus? Don't worry, death comes when it does. We do what we have to do, and if I have to die_…

Severus closed his eyes, then opened them and looked tiredly at Albus. "Yes," he said distantly. "You always have. I appreciate it." He turned abruptly on his heel, nodded once to Albus, and walked through the doorway, leaving Albus watching him with concern in his bright blue eyes.

Then Albus Dumbledore sighed, still brooding, and began to put away his Pensieve.

**oOo**

The phrase "_green and red makes dead_" comes from a rhyme.

"_Suffauc_" and "_Fresnan_" came about after fiddling with Latin words and roots. "_Cytan_" is "cut" in Old English.

Wait a moment, you ask. How did Snape know where LV's Horcruxes were? And what about Wang Qin and Ming-yue's work on the lycanthropy? ... That'll be in Chapter 9.

Thanks to all my reviewers, and especially to **Akimekura Amura** and **FireChildSlytherin5**, for their consistent reviews, and to **duj**, for her much appreciated concrit.

I see from my Stats page that there are some people with this story on favorites/alert lists who haven't yet reviewed... (coughs delicately) Like all other fanfic authors, I welcome reviews (as long as they aren't flames, of course)... So please review.

Talriga


	9. Chapter 9

See Ch. 1 for disclaimer.

Readers may note that this chapter is shorter than the others, about half as long. Well.

I have discovered that having massive amounts of school homework every day, as well as participating in a math contest, a trivia competition, and doing volunteer work at a debate tournament all on the same day (Saturday) is not particularly conducive to writing.

Translation: I've been insanely busy. Real life has not been kind to me. Not. At. All.

However, I did promise myself to stick to my deadlines, and so here is the update, albeit a _much_ shorter one than I thought it would be:

**Chapter 9**

(_Severus remembered_.)

His room was in one of the highest towers of Castellum Serpens, which was what he had asked for when he came there, seeking a refuge from the various elements searching—or rather, conducting a manhunt for him: the Ministry, the Order of the Phoenix.

_Manhunt_. The word tasted sour and bitter all at once in his mouth, as he gently rolled his tongue around it. _A manhunt, for a murderer_.

The moonlight shone through the single square cut window, falling upon the thickly carpeted floor in sheets of gleaming white. The decorations, of course, were green and silver, as were the embellishments twisting around the border of his papers scattered across the desk. On the opposite side of the room, several rows of wooden shelves were nailed into thick white plaster walls, each of them bristling with potions vials. The bed, its covers obscured by liberal amounts of draperies, was shunted over into one of the corners, and next to it was a small corner table.

He paused, looking up from his writing, just long enough to wearily rub at his eyes. His eyes passed over a small calendar, tacked up on the wall. It was the twentieth of November, nearly half a year after Albus had died.

_Or, to be more precise, nearly half a year since I killed him_.

_No. Do not think about that_.

He frowned, stuck that thought away into one of his mind's pools of quicksilver, and continued writing, every once in a while glancing at the book which lay open next to him. Now, with his work as a spy ended—at least, so the Dark Lord thought—he mainly spent his days brewing potions for the Dark Lord, or simply researching and patiently working his way through all the books in Castellum Serpens's extensive library, taking notes on any magical spells and such that the Dark Lord might find of use.

But he was still a spy.

Much of his time, he spent chatting with the others, trying to figure out the actions the Dark Lord would take next, then trying out how to subtly sabotage and derail those actions. So far, his work had been successful, and gone unnoticed. He was good at that sort of thing.

The nib of his quill broke under the pressure of his fingers, which were pushing down on the writing utensil and had pinched it into two. With an irritated look at the black ink presently oozing its way onto his mahogany wood desk, Severus impatiently said, "_Scourgify_." The soap bubbles bubbled out of the tip of his wand and scoured the inky spot clean.

He put the broken quill down on the blotter next to the paper, and leaned back in his chair, trying to suppress his urge to yawn. It was not that he hadn't had any sleep—he was one of those types of people who naturally had less sleep, and could go perfectly fine all day without it. He recalled days at Hogwarts, when he would go to sleep late and wake up early, yet wide awake, his mind working and twisting around various scenarios and planning and thinking… Even Hogwarts was quiet, their link momentarily relaxed and not providing a channel for communication. But perhaps he had kept his eyes open for too long—they were beginning to sting with a dry prickle, and Severus blinked several times before his sight focussed again. He sighed, and pushed his chair out, stretching his arms. Maybe he would go down to the kitchens for something to eat.

Then his glance fell upon another book, tucked discreetly among his papers. It was a book on a subject which he was quite sure the Dark Lord had _not_ told him to research—but then again, he didn't necessarily have to follow his orders. Instead, he was following the orders of a dead man.

Severus moved back towards the desk, picking up the book and opening it to a page he had marked. He hadn't had much time to look through it, and this was as good a time as any.

He had found the book on a routine search through the library a few days ago. It was titled _Fonts of Knowledge_, the author was named Nawan Corrumpe, and it would have not drawn Severus's attention at all, either way. Except, of course, that as he idly flipped it open, he found the Dark Lord's slanted handwriting in it.

And after that, how could he not take it from the library of Castellum Serpens, to see what the Dark Lord had found so interesting in the book?

Severus turned the pages, skipping the introduction and foreword. The writing was dry, and somewhat antiquated. However…

He stopped at the second chapter, "The Function of the Fonts."

_Often referred to as places that have, so to speak, "known magic," these springs, these fonts of self-knowledge and wisdom, are revered by many pureblood families as ancient places of magic. Such places are usually reserved as women's places. Often they may require some blood to enter (another sign of female-related imagery), which signifies the old age of these places—very old magic, after all, has always been tied to blood._

_Drinking the water from these fonts often allows the person who imbibes the liquid to become aware of one's self—that is, the times in one's life which has affected future decisions, one's fears, weaknesses, and desires. Such self-knowledge was considered almost dangerous by many; indeed, it was left to a privileged few who were allowed to partake of the water, and know themselves. Often times, only the most unblemished of soul could do so; those whose souls were tattered and torn, if daring to do the same, usually went insane from the enormity of what they had done_.

The Dark Lord's slanting, elegant handwriting was in the margins. It read, _Where is the wellspring? Could the wellspring be affected_?

Farther down, in darker ink—Severus supposed that it must have been written later—some more words had been written. _Requested B. B. to show me font. Found wellspring. See Potions book for potions_.

At the bottom of the page, there were only eight words, terse and at first glance incomprehensible to casual readers. _The font is ready for one of them_.

But Severus was not a casual reader. He had a very good idea of what the Dark Lord had meant by the font being ready. There was something very helpful about having a link to Hogwarts, he thought to himself. The castle readily informed him of any goings on that he might find of use to him, and Potter's exploits with Albus to the cave had been aired to his friends, and he had briefly mentioned it to Minerva McGonagall (although Severus grudgingly gave the Potter boy credit for not immediately blurting out the information on the Horcruxes and the existence of the aforesaid objects). According to Potter's rather convoluted story, they had been forced to swim in order to reach a cave, where Albus had splattered his blood over a stone wall to enter it, they'd been in a boat across a lake filled with Inferi, and they had retrieved the locket from a basin. Translation: cave, used blood, Inferi, and, finally, font of knowledge, except it was a _fons de knowlechen_ corrupted by some unknown potion that had forced Albus to relive painful memories.

Severus thought, _So the Dark Lord used the font to hold his Horcrux, except that it turned out to be fake. And who showed him the font? B. B._?

In his mind, he quickly skimmed over the names of the Death Eaters. _Antonin Dolohov, Evan Rosier, Lucius Malfoy, Walden MacNair, Bardolph Avery, Simon Wilkes, Rodolphus Lestrange, Rabastan Lestrange, Regulus Black, Bellatrix_ _Lestrange—_

_No. Not Bellatrix Lestrange. Bellatrix Black Lestrange. B. B. She showed him the font, because he ordered her to, and she would willingly do whatever he wanted her to do—_

_R. A. B._

Once again, a sentence from Corrumpe's Fonts of Knowledge rose up in his mind: "…_these fonts of self-knowledge and wisdom, are revered by many pureblood families as ancient places of magic_…"

And Severus nodded to himself in understanding, his mouth curling slightly with distaste and a little bit of smug satisfaction.

_Dear, dear, Bellatrix. Knowing you, you openly boasted about it to the other Black Death Eater in your family, but it seems that your young cousin did not approve of desecrating a font. Tradition rules in pureblood families, after all._

_And how could he have known…? Yes, he was the errand boy, how could he have known about the Dark Lord's Horcruxes…? He was never that highly ranked—_

_He was the errand boy. He brought the Inferi for the Death Eaters to use. He would have seen it. Maybe he didn't know what it was, but he knew the Dark Lord valued it…_

_And he was still true to the pureblood beliefs and traditions, long before he swore an oath of loyalty to the Dark Lord_.

And the final piece of the puzzle slotted into place, and Severus smiled, feeling very pleased with this new turn of events. And this new turn of events called for some observance of itself.

He stood up and headed for the door, walking across the threshold and quietly locking the door behind him with a series of wards which even Gringotts curse-breaker Bill Weasley would have been unable to penetrate. Treading softly on the twisting stone steps that led downward, he came to the bottom of the curving staircase, his right hand on the stone wall and trailing over the cold hard stone, the shallow crevices that separated them. He was also probably the only one still awake right now. Severus briefly entertained for a moment the flitting thought that he might sneak into the Dark Lord's room and kill him—except, of course, that the chances of success for that were not very high (which was itself, admittedly, an understatement), and his intuition did not agree to it either—in fact, it objected to it rather vehemently. Quite strenuously.

And there was that ridiculous prophecy, after all.

He glided down the corridors, finally halting in front of a small door set into the wall. He bent down and said, lazily, "_Increscere Sise_." The little door expanded until it was big enough for him to walk through in a stooped fashion. He grasped the door knob and twisted it carefully, stepping into…

The realm of the house elves.

One of the house elves turned around and saw him. She wore a somewhat dirtied tea cosy, and Severus glanced commandingly at her. "Master Snape!" she said. "What would you like?"

Severus suppressed the urge to smirk again. "Some scones, Tilly," he replied. "And a glass of wine. Australian Shiraz, if you have any."

_Here's to you, Albus, and to Hogwarts and the Order. It seems that Regulus Black was very helpful indeed_.

**oOo**

Much to his irritation over the next few days, Severus found that just because Regulus Black had taken the locket, it did not automatically mean that he had destroyed it. There was the extreme likelihood that the younger Black brother had simply left it at 12 Grimmauld Place, in which case Kreacher could have stolen it away, the Order could have thrown it into the rubbish bins, or Mundungus Fletcher could have taken it and, ignorant of its true significance, sold it on the wizarding black market.

Severus thought about what he would do to Fletcher if the last was the case, and his fingers itched to go for his wand and curse that idiot into oblivion.

But in any case, he would not be able to retrieve it. So instead, Severus turned his attention to the other Horcruxes. _Diary, destroyed. Ring, destroyed. Locket, missing. Nagini, here in Castellum Serpens. Cup, in an unknown location. And some other godforsaken artefact_.

Painstakingly, he spent a good many months carefully tracing all the Founders' belongings over the centuries, and found that while most of them were either in keeping by the Ministry or some family, the Slytherin locket, the Hufflepuff cup, and the Ravenclaw seal had disappeared. Then he had to slowly track down and find the road a certain Tom Marvolo Riddle had taken after disappearing from England soon after Hepzibah Smith's death. Severus discovered that the aspiring Dark Lord had set off immediately for Germany, spending a few days at the Lebenszeit University in Berlin before venturing far into Eastern Europe. Hungary, Czechoslovakia, Albania…

Then Tom Riddle had turned up in the Soviet Union, seeking out the Rasputinists, the notorious cult which sought immortality as much as Riddle did.

On his next visit to the Soviet Union—ordered by the Dark Lord, of course, to recruit some new Death Eaters—Severus discreetly asked about the Rasputinists, and found that they had received the gift of a golden goblet from some unknown benefactor decades before, which they kept secure in their vault. So that was where the Hufflepuff cup was located.

Then, Severus knew, Tom Riddle had traipsed back to Hogwarts, asking Albus for the Defence position, and spending many days in and around Hogwarts. As the Dark Lord's most trusted follower (he had killed Albus, after all, so of course he _must_ be loyal), the Dark Lord had been more relaxed in speaking to him, and Severus discovered that the Dark Lord had a vast amount of knowledge about the Forbidden Forest, and one time even spoke of something he had left there which he needed to keep secure. _So there_, Severus decided, _is the place for the Ravenclaw seal, I suppose_.

There was only the problem of how to get this information to the Order, as Severus would not be able to get the Horcruxes by himself without attracting the Dark Lord's attention—frequent absences from Castellum Serpens would be noted. But by then, the Ministry had been destroyed, the Order had barricaded themselves into Hogwarts, and Potter and his friends were in some unknown place in the country.

Misfortune after misfortune, and then the resistance finally collapsed.

**oOo**

_HOGSMEADE ATTACKED! UNKNOWN ALLY?_

_By Eliot Danton, _Daily Prophet _reporter_

_Late last night, Hogsmeade—the only entirely magical settlement in all of Great Britain—was attacked by Death Eaters. Followers of You-Know-Who, who has only recently acknowledged to have returned, they engaged in a pitched battle with Aurors. However, it seems that even our valiant fighters were in dire straits. The Dementors, who deserted the prison of Azkaban, were slowly weakening the Aurors. Auror Beckett Sumner, currently still at St Mungo's, says, "There were simply too many of them for us. The Death Eaters fought us, and then the Dementors came up, and we couldn't cast our Patronii."_

_Amazingly enough, there was an unknown benefactor, who cast a huge Patronus to drive the Dementors. Yet it was no ordinary Patronus—instead of silver, it was a flaming black phoenix which many Aurors say seemed to actually destroy the Dementors. "It tore into them, and the Dementors just seemed to fall apart," says Auror Nymphadora Tonks._

_Many people are now looking to Albus Dumbledore, Headmaster of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, as the caster. Since it is openly known that a phoenix resides at the castle with the Headmaster…_

_Dumbledore has already denied this, however. So if the caster was not Dumbledore, then, we must ask, who was it?_…

**oOo**

Ron's love of the day rested in magnificent repose upon the table. The redheaded boy gazed adoringly at it, his eyes full of longing. It was gleaming brown, shining with crispiness, a latticed top…

"No, Ron, you can't eat the apple turnover," his mum admonished gently. "That's saved for Ginny, she helped me make it."

"Really? And she didn't blow up the house?"

"Ron!"

Next to him, Harry looked at the newspaper headlines, and then his right hand rose up to rub at his scar. "So that's why," he said, more to himself than to the others. "I thought it was a little sore last night."

"What do you mean?" Ron leaned over to peer at the day's edition of the _Daily Prophet_. "Oh. Hey, mum, was that why everyone in the Order was staying up late into the night?"

"Because of the attack on Hogsmeade? Yes," said his mum. "What a horrible thing to do."

Ron glanced with concern at Harry, whose fingers had absent mindedly found their way to his scar, which stood out against his skin, a white lightning bolt etched into his forehead and marring his facial symmetry. "Your scar hurts, mate?" he asked sympathetically.

"Not that bad," Harry replied. "But it itches sometimes. For a moment last night it really hurt like hell, and now it's all right."

Ron nodded, watching Harry. "I don't get it though," he said abruptly to Molly Weasley, who paused in the act of wiping a dish. "Why doesn't the Order say that it was Dumbledore with the phoenix anyway?"

"Because it wasn't," Sirius answered, stepping into the room. Ron's head swung up to see the escaped convict sit down across the table, still clad in red and gold sleepwear. "We don't know who summoned the Patronus, but whoever it is has got a wicked one. Look here." He angled his body slightly so he could see the article, and pointed further down the page. "Here it is. '_… It was no ordinary Patronus—instead of silver, it was a flaming black phoenix which many Aurors say seemed to actually destroy the Dementors_…' It did literally tear them apart, you know."

"But Dementors can't be destroyed!" was Hermione's surprised exclamation. She yawned as she came into the room, her thick brown hair falling in ringlets on her shoulders. "All the books say so!"

Ron muttered, "So proclaims the venerated _Hogwarts, a History_—"

"It wasn't _Hogwarts, a History_, it was another book." Hermione frowned at him.

Sirius was shaking his head. "Hermione," he said, "when you've seen Tonks's memory of the battle—it's just disproved all those books. Really, I mean it."

Hermione frowned again. "Budge over, Ron," she told him. Ron scooted over to make some space for her, and she sat down, reaching for a plate piled with eggs and bacon. "Then _how_ was it destroyed?"

Sirius raised his hands, palms facing out, in a sign of bafflement. "Don't ask me, Hermione. I don't know much about it, other than it happening."

As the others were talking, Ron thoughtfully chewed his food. Ever since the Ministry of Magic had—_finally_, he thought with disgust—acknowledged the return of You-Know-Who—no, not You-Know-Who, but Voldemort (he tried hard not to flinch), the wizarding world seemed to have entered some sort of hysterical state. Their family seemed to constantly switch between the Burrow and 12 Grimmauld Place sporadically, and Ron suspected it was to lessen the risk of being attacked. The last time they had visited Diagon Alley…

Ron still recalled the first time he had been allowed to go into the commercial hub of the British wizarding world. He idly remembered the short, yet clever and dangerous goblins guarding the bank of Gringotts, the sleek and shining brooms lined up neatly in the window display at Quality Quidditch Supplies, the wild, colourful, loud explosion that had momentarily rocked Gambol and Japes and sent Fred and George into ecstasies of excitement at what they could do with the joke shop's merchandise. Then there was the mustiness of Flourish and Blotts which was vaguely reminiscent of the atmosphere of a library, the rustling robes and cloaks of Madam Malkin's in numerous shades and colours, the horrible smell of the apothecary (he remembered that there were unicorn horns and beetle eyes, and then there was that horrible sulphuric smell…), the delicious Fortescue ice cream…

Except this year, it was different. When Ron had gone there at the beginning of July to visit Fred and George's shop, he could sense the palpable tension and fear in the air. They said Ollivander had, one day, mysteriously vanished from his shop, which had become a taboo topic for discussion—no-one liked to think if Ollivander had left, or been captured by Death Eaters. Florean Fortescue was missing, his ice cream parlour now without the cheery atmosphere that had once been there. People now moved around in groups, wands hidden within the voluminous folds of their robes, wary and suspicious. He remembered the newspaper kiosks, with the sight of the screaming black headlines, "_Potter—Chosen One?_" which was what the newspapers were calling Harry now, and which was met with great disgust and annoyance from the dubbed "Chosen One" (No one mentioned it around Harry—he was extremely touchy about the issue).

The world, to put it plainly, had changed drastically, and Ron felt it was for the worse. Not like that could be a surprise, with the Death Eaters and the murders and the fear—the atmosphere of pervasive fear, so thick that sometimes Ron thought a knife would be sluggish in cutting through it.

_So I'm afraid_, Ron thought. _Who isn't_? He watched his best friend, as he spoke to Sirius and Hermione, with a weary tone in his voice. Harry's emerald green eyes were shadowed, his usually messy black hair even more wild than ever; Ron saw the way that his face seemed to weigh down with the responsibility, the deaths that were beginning to gather and pile up.

_I'm afraid, I know, but I'll stick with you, Harry, I swear. Friends always stay together, and I'll be here whenever you need me. To the end_.

**oOo**

The name Nawan Corrumpe is from "cnāwan" in Old English, which means "to know," and from "corrumpere" in Latin, which is for "corrupt." (corrupted knowledge—i.e., the corruption of the font of self-knowledge in the cave).

_Fons de knowlechen_ is from "fons" (Latin for "spring) and "knowlechen" (obsolete, "to acknowledge").

"_Increscere Sise_" is from the Latin for "increase" and the Old French for "size."

The name Lebenszeit University comes from the German for "lifetime."

I'm aware that this chapter does not have the promised Wang Qin and Ming-yue scene with lycanthropy. (looks sheepish) Heh. I didn't have enough time to get to it. That'll be the next chapter, I promise!

Please review!

Talriga


	10. Chapter 10

See Ch. 1 for disclaimer.

Thank you to all my reviewers!

**Chapter 10**

_Dear Qin,_

_I have already received your daughter's application, and I would be honoured to have her as my potions apprentice. Please tell her so; I have already enclosed the Portkey, courtesy of some of my acquaintances in the Russian government. It will automatically activate on the first of January next year, at noon._

_I would very much appreciate it if Ming-yue could draw up a full summary of the projects in potions which she has been working on over the past years, and the course of study she wishes to pursue as an official apprentice of mine. As I have not taken an apprentice in some time, I prefer to have some knowledge of what area of potions your daughter specialises in, and to make sure that our work is compatible (for instance, if she were to study sleeping potions while I study corrosion potions and ward-breaking potions—as you well know, I do not see how we could reconcile these two drastically different fields of expertise in the art of potions brewing.). At present, I am conducting research into_ _the medicinal and healing properties of potions. I am fully confident that your daughter will be just as good an apprentice as you were back then, and as good a Potions Mistress as you are now._

_Congratulations on wrangling some more funds out of the government for your institute! Unfortunately for us here, the government has not been as accomodating as I would have liked. The Chairman, Oleg Kuznetsov, has always had more of a tendency to favour the law enforcement department, which we have nicknamed the "Politeia," and we at the St Petersburg Conservatory for Theoretical and Practical Magical Studies have seen our budget decreased ten percent this year, greatly affecting us and the research. So I thank you for your thoughtful gift of potions ingredients. Alina Koroeva—do you remember her? Her office is down the corridor a few doors away from mine—was delighted with the sprigs of native Mediterranean rosemary—especially considering all of it was pure and unadulterated by any other irritants. You always were one to choose good specimens. But then again, your young age gives you an advantage over your ninety year old former Potions Master, does it not? Ah yes, the halcyon days of youth._

_I hope that Yan-shui is all right; he really_ _does not deserve the curse he is afflicted with. Give him my greetings. Now, in answer to your query about wolfsbane: I don't believe that any research has ever turned up the precise reason why it is poisonous to werewolves. Quite frankly, and no offence, Qin, but no-one has ever really cared to do so. I suppose that this perception of wolfsbane only being deadly to werewolves could be considered a myth. If you recall the helmet flower, that lethal plant_ Aconitum napellus_, it is fatal to about almost anyone who is fool enough to digest it. In small, perhaps moderate amounts—allow me to quote from Zamyatin's _The Family Ranunculaceae: "… _roots produce symptoms of restlessness, salivation, nausea, a weakened and irregular heartbeat, chest pain, prostration, and frequently death within hours." Of course you already know this, but the curious thing with werewolves is that even the touch of wolfsbane is poisonous to them, and the symptoms and subsequent death occur at a quicker pace. I am pained to say that no-one knows why; all we know is that wolfsbane is toxic to werewolves. That is a "law," which describes, not a "theory," which explains. Among the Russian publications at least, no explanation has yet to emerge. But obviously you already know this._

_What a thoroughly depressing topic. If only someone could find out why… but I digress from my original point, and so I will end this letter, in anticipation of Ming-yue's arrival at the start of next year. Please have her send her synopsis as soon as possible._

_Yours truly,_

_Sergei Larionov_

_Senior Potions Master_

_St Petersburg Conservatory for Theoretical and Practical Magical Studies_

**oOo**

"Mother, you seem to find that article very interesting."

Wang Qin, the Head of the Chinese Potions Institute, potions researcher, eminent figure in the wizarding Chinese academic circles, and whose tests often resulted, sooner rather than later, in at least half the class hyperventilating and collapsing due to the high levels of stress, lowered the newspaper and glanced at her daughter over it. "Yes, it is very interesting," she murmured calmly. "Why don't you look at it?"

She placed the newspaper neatly on the table. Squeezed in between page four and five, there was a tiny blurb in the "In Other Countries" section. _Zhonghua Baozi_, which was to the wizarding world of China as the _Daily Prophet_ was to wizarding Britain, tended to marginalise events that occurred outside Chinese boundaries, but even it had decided to put in some noteworthy events that were occurring in the United Kingdom, courtesy of a certain Dark Lord.

Ming-yue read the blurb. "Destroying Dementors? How… unusual." Her brows furrowed in thought; she continued, "I would not have thought that possible."

"Anything," said Wang Qin, "is possible." Her hand came to rest at the table, fingers curling around the handle of a cup of tea. She seemed to inhale the warmth that rose from the cup. "By the way, when is the professor arriving?"

"In around half an hour," said Ming-yue. "The last time I wrote to him, he agreed to bring his werewolf acquaintance."

Wang Qin nodded. At first, Professor Severus Snape had been rather adamant about keeping Remus Lupin in Great Britain, in a secure location, but then Wang Qin had proceeded to gently—and pointedly, as well—note that the Potions Institute's grounds were probably much more safe for werewolf transformations than wherever he had chosen. After a rather long debate, the professor had finally agreed. Wang Qin personally felt that it was not so much the fact of security as it was that Professor Snape appeared to prefer to work by himself. _Not like that is any surprise_, she thought, _especially with his very precarious position_.

She had not been very amused when Professor Snape had told her the place he had first decided upon was named the Shrieking _Shack_ (which brought to mind images of a run down tiny little… structure which did not deserve to be called anything at all…), and that it happened to be located right on the grounds of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.

Then they had begun to argue about how they would observe the transformed werewolves. Professor Snape said he would rather observe through magical means, but Wang Qin had, rather forcefully, said that she thought perhaps Legilimency might help to penetrate their minds and see what it was like for a werewolf, and that certainly couldn't be accomplished by scrying a mile away. Professor Snape had finally given way, although he hadn't looked very happy about it.

Ming-yue picked up a crumpled piece of paper from the table, smoothing out the creases. She tapped the paper with her left forefinger, pointing to the name at the top, written in Chinese characters with ruthless slashes. Her next words struck out upon a different train of thought, jerking Wang Qin out of her musings. "And Mother, have you spoken to Zhang Hong yet? About her application to the Institute? She absolutely insists that she must be allowed to enroll, but I've been looking at her records, and her history with potions is so _abysmal_—"

"Well, then, don't let her in."

"But her father—"

"She has to get in on her own merits," said Wang Qin, shaking her head. "I have said that so many times. And she does not have the concentration for brewing potions, nor the aptitude."

"_You're_ not the one who has to listen to all of her father's Howlers."

"I tell you every time, cast a Silencing Charm the moment one comes. Zhang Han-su means best, I'm sure, but although he is an excellent apothecary, his daughter is not. And won't ever be. She is the type of unfortunately hapless person who would think wolfsbane and aconite are two different things."

The corners of Ming-yue's mouth twitched with amusement. "Perhaps," she said. "But when I hear his voice, I feel like I am going to scream sometimes, he's so _loud_."

Wang Qin watched Ming-yue, and could not help feeling pleased with her daughter. She was intelligent and creative, and she possessed a memory which had been cultivated from birth, through practice and hard work. Ming-yue could rattle off the steps for most potions, including the rarer ones, and she was efficient and used her time well. Wang Qin had already agreed to Ming-yue going off to Russia for her apprenticeship. It was best to let her have different experiences in different countries, and Ming-yue needed to prove herself to someone other than her own mother. Wang Qin's gaze passed over Ming-yue once again, and she ignored the white light that indicated Ming-yue's soul. Several months of having to see them had made her accustomed to her newfound ability, and nowadays she was able to at least disregard them somewhat, without affecting her sight too much.

_And speaking of apprenticeships_…

"I will be loud as well if you've been neglecting anything important, Ming-yue," she said, "I hope that you have been working on the summary Master Larionov asked for." She looked meaningfully at her daughter.

"Yes, yes, I am," replied Ming-yue, running a hand through her black hair. "Don't worry about it, I'm working on the abstract."

"By the way, how did you decide upon Master Larionov? I was under the impression you were going to apply elsewhere—certainly not my old Potions Master. It isn't trying for favouritism, is it, Ming-yue?"

Ming-yue looked appalled at the very suggestion. "Of course not! How could you think such a thing? At first, I was going to go to Nadine Lennox, in the United States, but then she was nearly run over by a Muggle car—"

"Oh, I heard about that, her injuries sounded horrible."

"They were. She contacted me and told me that the hospital said she wouldn't be able to teach for at least a year, not without overexerting her heart, which they had said she couldn't do, and in any case she wanted to retire. So then I had to decide among Master Ioannis Tsaldris in Greece, Mistress Pilar Estravados of Spain, and Master Sergei Larionov, in Russia. But then Tsaldris replied to say he already had an apprentice—and you know how he only takes one at a time, because he's so busy, and Pilar Estravados told me that since she's just starting an in-depth study on potions from the ancient African societies for several years, she thought that my studies wouldn't be compatible. So I contacted Master Sergei Larionov, in St Petersburg, and he said yes." She grinned.

"Well, you've made a very good choice. He knows practically every wizard and witch in St Petersburg—he's quite brilliant, and he's been there for a long time. When you submit the synopsis, what are you going to have for your main topic of research during the apprenticeship?"

"Wolfsbane, of course. Its role in potions." Ming-yue paused, as the mention of wolfsbane followed its path to other problems. "Is Father in bed?" she continued.

"Mm-hmm. I told him he might as well go and have some rest—this night will not be merciful to him."

"When is it ever?" Ming-yue sighed and pinched the bridge of her nose wearily. "We haven't even got that far yet in fiddling with the Wolfsbane potion."

Wang Qin frowned. "True. I am beginning to think that maybe, in order to get rid of the lycanthropy, we ought to try different tactics. Other fields of magic… You see, it was very kind of Professor Snape to send us all those books, even some from their Ministry library. You have been reading them, right?"

"Of course I have."

"Well, you see that the lycanthropy was probably created through an experiment with wild magic gone wrong. I've been tracing all reports of lycanthropy back over the centuries. Here, let me show you."

The Potions Mistress pushed her chair gently back and stood up. She walked over to one of the shelves stacked with books nearby, running her gaze over the titles before finally choosing one that was bound with brown leather and stamped with black lettering. As she flipped it open, some faint dust rose from the yellowed pages, before settling down again. She withdrew a folded piece of parchment from the book and set the large tome back on the shelf. Striding back to the table, she unfolded the parchment, which turned into a very large chart.

"Oh, for the love of Wang-mu," Ming-yue said, staring wide eyed at the chart, "how long did that take you?"

"Long enough so that I never want to read records on lycanthropy again," replied Wang Qin sardonically. "I'm sorry, Ming-yue, but I am a bit touchy today. Look down here. For instance, let's say this is the lycanthropy family tree, all right?"

Ming-yue put her hand over her mouth, and it seemed that she was trying hard not to laugh out loud. Instead, all she said was, "Well, I don't think that the family members particularly like each other if they're always fighting. A regular family quarrel."

Wang Qin's answer was a "hmm" she made in her throat, and a reprimanding glance sent Ming-yue's way. "This is no joking matter, Ming-yue," she said. "I started from the recent, so here—" she pointed to the bottom of the chart "—is where your father happens to be, and I went from there."

_Hai Yan-shui_ was written in black ink near the bottom, and a red line linked it to _Fenrir Greyback_. Most of the more recently turned werewolves were at the bottom as well, and as the thin spidery lines spun upward, the amount of space that they took up compressed until it trailed to question marks. The name nearest the top, the earliest werewolf she could trace, said _Thorvald ap Sirideainn_.

"I have only been able to trace it back to the early part of this millenium," Wang Qin said. "Beyond that, there are no more records. I don't know if it stretches further on back, or if lycanthropy began at that time. The research… it is a daunting task, Ming-yue, you know that. If you want to spend your time on other things, you can, of course. You know that I will not be able to contribute as much as I have during the summer—when the next school year at the institute starts, I will be too busy to do much about it. So will Professor Snape. I know that you usually study at home—I wouldn't want you to neglect your studies for this, especially since the chance of a cure is such a slim one—"

"It's all right. I'll do it."

And then there came a knocking. Wang Qin lifted her head to look at the door which led into the entrance corridor, and said aloud, "Who is it?"

Only someone who was there in the flesh would have seen the jet black Chinese characters appearing on the demure blue wallpaper. _Hogwarts Professor Severus Snape. Remus Lupin_. "Thank you," said Wang Qin, and the characters faded back to blue.

"Let them in, Ming-yue," Wang Qin said. Ming-yue got up and left the room. She returned moments later with the Professor, and—

Wang Qin observed Remus Lupin in a circumspect and subtle way. As it always happened to be, her eyes were drawn towards the upper body, where the soul rested. It was not exactly in that location—there were smoky coils of it spreading throughout the body, but she found it easier on the eyes if she envisioned it near the heart. Wang Qin saw at once the black tendrils which entwined themselves within him. _Oh dear. His situation is worse than Yan-shui's. But perhaps he has been a werewolf longer than Yan-shui_. Then she looked at his face. It was a little worn and lined; his eyes, a warm amber brown colour, nearly smiled at her, if eyes could smile, and his light brown hair was shot through with streaks of grey. All in all, Wang Qin thought, he seemed to be a mild person.

But never let it be said that Wang Qin neglected politeness. She smiled civilly and rose from her chair, nodding to her visitors. "Professor Snape. Remus Lupin. I am glad you're here." Behind the two men, Ming-yue looked at her mother, and jerked her head towards the corridor. Wang Qin gave the slightest of nods. _Go wake your father up, Ming-yue_. Ming-yue quietly left.

Professor Snape returned her greeting with a short, respectful nod and the words, "As am I, Wang Qin." His soul—his _xin_, his _anima_—was as bright as the day she had spoken to him in Johannesburg, even as his left arm was as black as night. Remus Lupin smiled at her, albeit somewhat nervously. Wang Qin supposed that he was not used to dealing with others who, knowing of his lycanthropy, did not promptly back away. She turned to him. "And it is a pleasure to meet you, Mr Lupin," she said.

"Likewise," Mr Lupin replied. "Please, just call me Remus."

Wang Qin acknowledged this. "Remus."

Professor Snape shifted rather impatiently. "And now that the courtesies are past…" he said pointedly.

The smile slipped from Wang Qin's face; it took on a studious look and she gestured toward the table, inviting them to sit down. "Yes. I received the research you so kindly managed to procure for us. My daughter Ming-yue has agreed to begin to read through all of it, since I am aware that you, like me, must be busy when the students arrive for the school year. Remus, I've managed to obtain a monthly Portkey for you."

Remus blinked. "Er, a Portkey?"

Professor Snape looked like he was about to say something cutting, but he didn't. Instead, he managed the undeniably difficult feat of looking exasperated without so much as a muscle twitching in his face. He said in a neutral voice, "Of course a Portkey. You'll be coming here for your transformations every month."

Wang Qin picked up where the professor had left off. "And my daughter will be observing," she said. "Of course, if you feel uncomfortable transforming in front of her—"

"Your daughter?" At this, Remus looked vaguely surprised. "She—she doesn't mind?"

"She doesn't mind her father being a werewolf," Wang Qin replied. "Why should she be frightened of you?"

"Her father?"

Wang Qin looked at Professor Snape, who said, "Three years ago, her husband was turned. By Fenrir Greyback."

"Ah," said Remus. "I see." For the first time, he showed some sign of emotion. His mouth thinned. "Yes. He was the one who bit me too, except he did it when I was six."

The Potions Mistress thought, _So that is why the lycanthropy is so much more firmly tangled with himself—he has been living with it for a very long time, I suppose_. She nodded; said, "It must have been terrible, being so young."

Remus looked down at the table. "Yes, well, it was such a long time ago that I've forgotten what it was like before the bite." He paused, and the line of his jaw tightened a little. "Excuse me," he said. "But—I think that it's nearly time."

Wang Qin knew what he meant. "Come along," she said.

The Chinese Potions Institute had its own holding row for the werewolves, of course, but its Head had gone ahead and had an annex built onto the house, with more cells just in case. Now, she led the two men to a small door set into the back of the house, turning the knob and opening it.

A bright light fell across their faces. As Remus Lupin hesitantly stepped forward, Wang Qin stepped to the side to allow him a better look at the place where he would be transforming. It was a short corridor, the walls painted stark white. The cells—and Wang Qin knew, although she did not say, that they were cells for containment and imprisonment, no matter what it looked like—were padded with cushioning charms. Extensive magical wards and panels of glass, strengthened by spells, would keep the transformed werewolves from breaking out.

Then her husband emerged from one of them, his face wan but still smiling. "Wang Qin! Who are your guests?"

Hai Yan-shui was a tall man, with his short black hair turning the salt and pepper kind of grey and neatly parted in the middle. His dark brown eyes gleamed with perpetual amusement behind his gold frame glasses; a straight long nose, a thin, placid face. "Oh, never mind, I know you two. Professor Snape and Remus Lupin, am I not right?"

"Correct," Professor Snape replied, stepping forward and shaking Yan-shui's hand.

"Well, thank you for coming," Yan-shui said amiably. "But there's really no time for pleasantries, you see." He looked briefly at his watch for a moment, then removed it from his wrist and set it down on a nearby stool. "It's almost time for the transformation." He made a grimace. "Mr Lupin, come along, I'll show you the facilities. Qin, if you don't mind…"

Wang Qin led Ming-yue and Professor Snape out of the annex, closing the door. "They prefer to be alone during the actual transformation," she said to Professor Snape. "Don't worry—Yan-shui knows how the cells work, he checks all the security precautions ten times over."

Professor Snape's face looked oddly drawn and pale. "I see," he said. "So now—we wait."

They waited.

**oOo**

Severus wasn't afraid of Lupin. No, he thought, not Lupin.

No, it was the werewolf side. The raging lycanthropy.

_This is ridiculous_, he told himself. _I was reckless enough as a student to go down into the tunnel under the Whomping Willow and face a werewolf and pretend it was a murder attempt, so I could say to the Death Eaters that I hated the golden Gryffindors and I wanted to kill them because they had tried to kill me. And I was calm enough to pull it off. But now_…

He inwardly cringed at the prospect of entering Lupin's mind through Legilimency. He was not quite sure what he would find there, but he didn't think it would turn out to be chocolate and flowers—Honeydukes and snowdrops and roses and the wizarding gourmet _L'Delicieux_.

The three of them once again entered the annex. Severus felt eerily unsettled by the noise. There were muting charms on the cells, he supposed, but it was still odd to see the werewolves snarling and slavering and hurling themselves against the walls—and hear only soft sounds.

He did not look to the left. Wang Qin and Ming-yue were already heading towards the cell on that side. That would be Yan-shui. So instead, he stepped over and peered into the cell on the right.

Lupin—but it wasn't Remus Lupin anymore, not Remus Lupin, but a werewolf—lunged towards him, sharp jaws snapping. Severus hurriedly stepped back, but the werewolf slammed into an invisible wall and slid, whimpering, to the ground. It was a medium sized wolf, mostly grey but with a bit of white on the paws, tail, and muzzle. Twisting around, it snarled and paced around in the cell, occasionally throwing itself against its confines and growling. Its head turned sharply, its muzzle opening and closing in a series of snaps that failed to reach Severus. He got down on his knees, sitting back and watching the werewolf.

It had been much the same all those years ago, except Severus had caught only a glimpse of the werewolf in the dark before he decided it was a good time to run for his life and hope like hell that he could make it out. He hadn't seen much of Remus Lupin, the werewolf; only the harsh breathing and the snarling and the glint of flashing lupine eyes before Severus was hastily scrambling—no, being pulled out of the Whomping Willow by James Potter (That, he hadn't expected.). It had been a gamble, a huge gamble on his part, even though a spell was on the tip of his tongue, ready to cast a silver shield that would stop the werewolf. It had been a gamble, his speed and magic against Lupin's ferocity.

It had been a gamble, but it had succeeded in its purpose.

The werewolf's head swung around sharply, its upper lip curling to show its protruding canines, and it started again towards Severus.

Severus met the werewolf's eyes, and thought silently, _Legilimens_!

His mind pushed into the golden brown feral eyes, and he…

—fell—

The darkness spread out around him in clouds of black black black, the mind was dark, and he—

—fell—

The darkness reached out for him with inky black tendrils, and surged towards him—

—fell—

He crouched down on the ground, trying to ignore the raging storm that screamed and snarled and was simply _wild_. _This is the epitome of wild_, thought Severus, _and how _does_ Lupin survive this_?

Vaguely, he became aware of something, someone near him. He lifted his head and glanced around in the werewolf's mind, and he saw the wolf.

It was gleaming brilliant ebony black, and it was nosing at the ground, as though it were following a scent. Then it raised its head and looked straight at Severus. The wolf's hackles seemed to raise abruptly. Its ears twitched, and it sprang towards Severus.

Severus swore violently, and his mental self dove out of the way. As they both wheeled around to face each other—the wolf and Severus, Severus and the wolf—he saw something else: wisps of black, very much tangible, that surrounded its paws and danced along the ground, trying to reach him—

Instinctively, Severus lashed out with his own magic. It was black as well, black fire that flared up and enclosed the threat in a large circle. He backed away, thinking that he really had better get out of the werewolf's mind before he was attacked. He could see the vines that were now spiraling from the wolf's body and straining to overcome his flames. _It's trying to reach me_, he thought. He felt his magic storming around him, and frantically directed it toward the black wolf.

Another thought occurred to him. _It's trying to pass on its lycanthropy_.

With that, he turned sharply on his heel and ran. But the blackness was all around him, and his magic shivered and lashed angrily at the wildness, and he ran. He couldn't see anything in front of him, and briefly he had the fleeting thought that he ought to just pull out of Lupin's mind, except he needed to find out about the lycanthropy—

He ran.

The black vines arched overhead, twisting with something that Severus thought was white, and he slid to a halt and looked back towards the encroaching darkness. Then he looked ahead, and he saw the bridge.

It looked as though it were made of shining translucent glass, and the lycanthropy reached across it, twisting into the cracks and holding tightly to it. He looked back again, back at the wolf chasing him, and stepped onto the bridge.

It broke with an ominous crack, and he gasped out loud as he plummeted down—

Except he wasn't down, he was standing. He was standing in a pure white room—or, it would have been pure white if it weren't for the black tendrils twisting around a small boy next to the wall. The boy looked impossibly young, only around five or six.

Severus cautiously walked over to him. The boy lifted his head to look momentarily at Severus; his hair was light brown, his eyes a golden brown. And Severus realised with a jolt, _This—this was Remus Lupin, when he was bitten. Merlin, he's _young.

Then the boy opened his mouth and said, "Hello, Severus."

Severus stared at him.

"Surprised to see me this way?" the boy continued, bitterness lacing every word he said. He strained against the blackness holding him. "It's the damn lycanthropy, that's what!"

"Lupin?"

The boy blinked; smiled. It was not a kind one. "Not Lupin," he said. "Not exactly—I'm his… unconscious, so to speak. His unconscious emotions and whatnot." He shrugged nonchalantly. "When he transforms, his mind is smothered and he loses all conscious thought. This is what he does experience, I'm what's left. Trust me, we're having this conversation, but he won't remember a thing. All he ever knows is pain." He laughed loudly. It was a cacophonous noise that clashed strangely with Severus's silence.

"Do you know how to get rid of it? The lycanthropy, I mean." Severus had the distinct feeling that it was best not to insult… Lupin's unconscious. _He has had his rage suppressed for so long—that's not healthy. I don't want to be the one around when he explodes_.

"Hell, if I knew how to get rid of it, wouldn't I have done that a long time ago?" the boy snapped; he strained against his bindings, but they only held on tighter to him, and Severus watched in astonishment as the black wisps seemed to press _into_ the boy's body for a moment before reappearing around him. The boy followed Severus's gaze and said, "Oh yes, it's trying to push itself into me. The lycanthropy, you see, it's trying to be part of my _soul_. To combine together and become one. Right now, all it has is control of my body and it manages to black out my mind, and it's sort of beginning to twist into my soul, but when my soul and the lycanthropy finally merge—hello world, another Fenrir Greyback." He gave Severus a sardonic grin. "Wouldn't you like that?"

Severus said curtly, "No."

"No?" Then the grin vanished, and the boy slumped, held up by his smoky chains. "It's always the strongest at the time of the full moon," he said darkly. "Any other time I can fight it off, keep it at bay, but at the full moon, it gains so much _power_ and I can't keep it away—and so…"

"Is there anything I can do?" Severus asked simply.

"Yes," the boy replied. He looked straight at Severus. "You can help me. Separate the lycanthropy from me, lift its control from me. _Free me_."

There was a sudden snarl that seemed to come from nowhere, and the walls gradually began to be covered with smoky black wisps. The boy glanced around, then said, "The lycanthropy's not happy. It thinks you ought to be its next victim. You'll have to get out of here for now."

Severus opened his mouth to say something, but the boy said in a sharp tone, "Now!"

He knew when to follow directions.

Severus pulled away, forced himself out of Lupin's mind—_the lycanthropy's mind_?—and then—

He was kneeling in front of Lupin's cell, staring at the werewolf which paced inside and flung itself at the walls. He looked into the wolf's eyes for any trace of the intelligence which Remus Lupin possessed (albeit perhaps only a little), but he found none. There was only wildness, and rage, rage against being caged and held, and ruthlessness.

The werewolf sat back on its haunches, lifted up its head, and howled.

**oOo**

"Politeia" is Greek for "civil organisation, the state." And wolfsbane—aconite—belongs to the family Ranunculaceae; the information supposedly from "Zamyatin's book" (who was a Russian author, but nothing to do with botany) is actually from Encarta Reference Encylopedia 2005.

_Zhonghua Baozi_ is simply translated from Chinese into English as "Chinese newspaper." Not the most imaginative of names, I know…

"L'Delicieux" is rough French for "delicious."

This was a hard chapter to write. That letter alone... well, it was hard to write. And I hope I've adequately captured the sensation of being inside a mind controlled by lycanthropy.

So, as always, please review! It makes me feel very warm inside. : )

Talriga


	11. Chapter 11

See Ch. 1 for disclaimer.

Thanks to all my reviewers!

**Chapter 11**

"Here, you might want a drink of water, Mr Lupin."

Remus squinted, trying to shield his sensitive visual pupils from the sunlight that was filtering through the windows. As he gradually became aware of his surroundings, he realised that he was lying on a bed, and that a solemn looking black haired girl was handing him a glass of water. "Thanks," he croaked, and winced at how ragged his voice sounded.

"There's no need," the girl said. _What's her name_? Remus thought groggily. _Ming-ye, Ming-yi, Ming_—

"Ming-yue, can you come over here for a moment? I think you ought to hear what Professor Snape and I encountered during the transformation."

_Oh. Ming-yue_.

The bed creaked slightly as Ming-yue stood up and walked off. Wincing at the small frissons of acute pain that shot through his body, Remus slowly propped himself up in bed with his elbows and looked around.

It was morning. He was in a small, comfortable room, in one of two beds. The other bed was occupied by Hai Yan-shui, who was sitting up and polishing the lenses of his glasses patiently with a piece of soft cloth. Seeming to sense Remus's look, he turned his head slightly and smiled at him. "Mr Lupin, do you feel all right?"

"Passably enough," Remus said, coughing a little. "It hurts… less than I thought it would."

Yan-shui nodded knowledgeably. "Ah, that would be because you smelled the others."

"Excuse me?"

"Well," Yan-shui explained, "when we're transformed, we smell the others, and since we're constantly trying to get at them, we don't injure ourselves so much—you know, no gnawing at paws or such."

His voice was almost ridiculously flippant, Remus thought, and then he looked more closely at Yan-shui and saw the weariness behind it.

"Of course there are still quite a lot of gashes," Yan-shui continued, "but it isn't as bad as it could have been."

Remus nodded, not knowing what to say, and sat up in a more steady position. "What has it been like for you?" he asked awkwardly. "A werewolf—at this time?"

"Well, I daresay my situation here is much better than if I were in your country, for instance. We Chinese are much more enlightened—lycanthropy isn't passed on just by shaking hands with a werewolf, you know, while on the other hand people in other countries go so far as to walk on opposite sides of the streets, is that not right?" Yan-shui grinned, his voice slightly teasing, and he winked.

Remus smiled wanly. "I try not to let them find out I'm a werewolf in the first place."

"But they will figure it out in the end, don't they?" Yan-shui shook his head. "We—I don't think we're werewolves so much as we are human beings who happen to be infected with lycanthropy. You've heard what it really is—a parasite. Even the word 'werewolf'—it's a bit of a misnomer. We're like chronically sick people. The _unfortunate_ thing is that when we take sick leave, it's to wait for the time when we go wild." His voice was dry.

"And it's monthly," Remus added.

"And there's the chance we might infect others with it too… How long have you had lycanthropy?" Yan-shui asked curiously.

Remus thought hard. "Thirty-one years."

Yan-shui whistled loudly. "That's a long time."

"Yes," said Remus. "Yes, I suppose it is."

**oOo**

"Take the Portkey, Lupin," Severus said rather ungraciously. The two were standing outside, the door closing behind them, their courtesies already said to the Chinese family. As the sun set beyond the far off hills, bands of deep red and rich orange appeared, stretching in a gloriously vivid panorama at the end of the sky. Severus could have appreciated the scenery, but he was more concerned with getting back to Britain.

Lupin reached out his hand and grabbed the other end of the Portkey, a thin, smooth rod made of pewter. "_Britannia_," he said quietly. The surroundings around them blurred and mixed together into a medley of colours, and then—

The two were standing outside, on the outskirts of Hogsmeade. It was shockingly bright, the way the rays of sunlight seemed to penetrate and seep into them. Next to Severus, Lupin stumbled slightly. Severus, as always, retained perfect balance.

Lupin let go of the rod, and Severus stowed the Portkey away into the pockets of his robes. "Are you supposed to go anywhere, Lupin?" he asked.

"I usually go back to headquarters," Lupin said. "Sirius always wants to check on me."

Suppressing a disdainful look at the mention of Black, Severus scrutinised Lupin. He looked quite a bit paler than usual, and there was a thin scratch along the left side of his neck. Other than that, though, any of the other injuries he had sustained during the transformation were hidden from view by his robes. And Lupin had already had most of a day to rest. Different time zones, Severus thought, could be most helpful at times. They had left China when it was night, but it was daytime in the United Kingdom; thus, the others would simply think Lupin had come in the morning right after his transformation, not recovering for the greater part of a day. "Very well," he said curtly, and Disapparated with a pop.

He appeared near the corner of Grimmauld Place, Lupin Apparating behind him a moment later, and spared a quick look around before striding down the pavement to the entrance of the headquarters of the Order.

Mischievous thoughts danced around in his head as he thought for a moment about loudly banging the ornate Black family knocker against the door and waking up the portrait of Walburga Black, but he decided not to. Morning was not the best time to have a migraine, after all, which would be what he would encounter if he chose to go through with aforementioned action. So instead, he simply opened the door and walked in, leaving the door open for Lupin, who closed it behind him with a soft _thump_.

The house was oddly quiet. Severus and Lupin entered the kitchen, which was deserted. "The others are probably lying in bed and being lazy, no doubt," Severus said, making sure to inject just the right amount of disgruntlement into his voice. This was expected of him, as the only people other than them in the house would be Potter and Black. Granger and the Weasleys had momentarily returned to the Burrow.

"Well then, we'll just make breakfast for them," Lupin replied in a disgustingly cheerful manner. He flicked his wand, and dishes flew out of a nearby cupboard, arranging themselves neatly on the table. A pot filled with water clattered onto the stove, the water beginning to boil.

"Make breakfast? Lupin, I am not a cook for dunderheads," Severus snapped.

"Then I'll cook. Make some tea, Severus, you're far too strung up sometimes. Tea does wonders for me, at least."

_But I'm not you, Lupin_. Silently cursing Lupin's annoying politeness, Severus pointed his wand at the windows, lifting the shades and letting in light that swirled around dust motes, which, disoriented and confused, hovered in the air before beginning to follow soft currents of air in a merry march. Carefully watching the pot on the stove, he sat down at the table and reviewed what he, Wang Qin, and Ming-yue had discussed while Lupin and Yan-shui had been recovering.

While he had been using Legilimency to enter Lupin's mind—well, not really Lupin's mind, but the lycanthropy's mind—Wang Qin had instead utilised her ability to see souls. She had explained to both her daughter and Severus about how the blackness that was invading Yan-shui's body—the lycanthropy—had slowly begun to cover up the whiteness in a thin haze. The full moon, evidently, had been the trigger for this—Severus supposed that it was perhaps because the phases of the moon had always had a significance in ancient rituals, once performed in long ago days. In Yan-shui, it had spread throughout his body, although Wang Qin emphasised the fact that it had yet to begin trying to insinuate itself into his soul. On the other hand… she had briefly looked at Lupin after Severus had finished his Legilimency probe, and had quietly said that Lupin was extraordinarily lucky.

_Perhaps that's why werewolves don't have such a long life span_, Severus thought as he frowned down at the table. Then he looked up again at Lupin, who was busy with sizzling bacon. _Lupin is a bit of an anomaly, isn't he? He's managed to retain the separation for so long—thirty-one years, isn't it? Most werewolves are already dead by then—either because someone kills them, or they kill themselves by suicide, or the transformations and the stress kills them. Or the lycanthropy takes them, like Fenrir Greyback._

_Then wouldn't the Ministry be correct in condemning them…?_

_No_, Severus thought. _They're still human, aren't they? Fenrir Greyback… isn't. His soul was destroyed long ago, he's… not human._

_Well, isn't that the difference then? Because Lupin and most of the others are just people that are sick, who need to be helped, and Fenrir Greyback isn't a person, he's quite literally a lycanthrope._

_Hmm. This puts an interesting spin on things._

_Looks like the Ministry should have paid better attention and given more resources to the Werewolf Support Services. It's amazing they haven't realised this earlier—but then again, the only reason they check up on werewolves is to make sure they don't bite anyone. They don't provide many health or counselling services, and those idiotic bureaucrats never thought of setting up facilities for them, did they?_

_And yet… how did Lupin preserve the rift? Something to cling to…?_

_Well. He had his friends, and later the knowledge that Harry Potter was alive and out there, and last of all his determination. Yan-shui has his family. Greyback… Greyback had nobody, I suppose. And so when we turned away from him, he turned away from us… literally._

_It seems that the world creates its own problems_.

Severus's mind flitted from thought to thought, so rapidly that for a moment the world whirled. So he latched onto a stray thread: _How can it be destroyed_?

He didn't know the answer to that, did he? Severus closed his eyes and envisioned Wang Qin's chart in front of him, the chart tracing back the lines of lycanthropy, and the name at the top. _Thorvald ap Sirideainn_. He didn't recognise it.

Nor did he wish to bother with it right now anyway. He opened his eyes. The Horcruxes were still out there, weren't they? _The seal, and the cup, and the locket, and Nagini_. The diary and the ring were both destroyed already, of course, but there were more out there. And he still had to get the Ravenclaw seal sometime—and where would he find the time? it couldn't be destroyed so easily either, could it?—and the Slytherin locket was gone, and the Hufflepuff cup was securely locked up in the Rasputinists' vault, and he didn't even know how to get there and get in and find the cup and destroy it and get out without the Rasputinists going wild with rage, because of course they wouldn't approve of him trying to destroy a valued artefact—

He stared at the table until it seemed as if he could burn a hole straight through it with his gaze. Vaguely, he became aware that he was smoking, and that Lupin was looking at him. _Oh, these habits. Of course they'd think it strange_.

Lupin asked, "When did you start to smoke, Severus? Isn't it unhealthy for you?"

Severus blew out some smoke; said, "Number one, when did you start to care, Lupin? Number two, I don't expect smoking will have any impact on my longevity whatsoever, considering my life span is probably a rather short one." _There, how do you like that, Lupin? Go away and feel guilty about how I'm going to die while trying to gain information to save you and Black and precious Potter. Go off and feel guilty. Have a guilt trip_.

_I _am _enjoying this, aren't I?_

_Well, it _is _amusing, watching his face_.

Lupin looked concerned. "Well, you ought not to be so cynical about surviving the war, Severus. I mean, you're very talented at your work."

_Oh, really? I was talented enough to do what Dumbledore asked me to do, and see where that led us_. "Cynicism is an unpleasant way to say the truth," Severus replied. "And whoever said I was pleasant?"

"Dumbledore does."

"Hardly. Of course he'd say that. He's an optimist; he always thinks the best comes out of things. Usually, it's the worst." Severus heard the suddenly frigid tone in his voice; from the look on his face, Lupin was surprised, but Severus wasn't. _Yes, he is an optimist, isn't he? He thought Potter could recover, carry on and do his task, but instead Potter was angry and brooded and lost all emotional control and all his friends. And he left me to fend for myself, too_.

_God, Albus, if I didn't know you were over a hundred and fifty years old, I'd say you were naïve_!

Lupin shook his head and set down a plate of bacon and eggs. "You're being too pessimistic, Severus. Here, have something to eat." He slid the plate over to Severus, then a fork and a cup of tea, before sitting down with his own breakfast.

Severus eyed the food in front of him warily.

"Oh, Severus, it's not like I poisoned the breakfast," Lupin said with some exasperation.

Severus shrugged. "Well, cynicism is the way to prepare for the worst."

Lupin countered with, "But optimism brings you hope."

"And what use is hope, if it isn't plausible?" Severus said lazily as he stabbed his fork into the bacon, hearing an audible crunch as he did so. He was aware of the fact that to him, his words were somewhat hypocritical—he had hardly known if it was possible for him to time-travel—but then again… Lupin didn't know that, did he? "For instance, let's say that the Headmaster were to die. How would Potter respond, hmm?" There was a faintly challenging tone in his voice. "It's a rather implausible hope that Potter would promptly become the leader that we all need." The last few words dripped with sarcasm.

"Severus, I don't think that Dumbledore is going to die any time soon—"

"He's over one hundred and fifty years old, and the Dark Lord considers him one of his greatest threats. And Potter is a _teenager_—" he said the word with undeniable scorn "—who scarcely knows how to control his own emotions, much less even know what to do without guidance. Did you know that he and his friends went gallivanting off to try and rescue Black—even though I was an Order member at Hogwarts?"

A look of sheepishness fell across Lupin's face. "Well, it's not exactly as if you've given him reason to trust you—"

"And he would rather go off by himself and get himself killed, for all the good it does him, I'm sure. People are far more likely to be all gloomy and dejected and hopeless than to run about yelling bloody murder—oh, except for Black, perhaps, but see where that put _him_. Hardly the rational thing to do; it would have been better for all concerned if he'd gone off to tell the Headmaster about the Secret-Keeper switch, instead of going mad and trying to murder someone."

Lupin sighed. "Well, Sirius has always been impulsive, you know."

"Being impulsive isn't necessarily good."

"I know that, Severus, there's no need to rub it in."

"I'm not _rubbing it in_, as you say, I'm just pointing out that it was extremely ridiculous of him to go after Pettigrew—and tell me how to get into the tunnel under the Whomping Willow." Severus arched an eyebrow, looking at Lupin. Yes, it had been entirely too easy to goad Black into doing so.

And it was entirely too easy to strike Lupin's conscience in just the right places.

Lupin winced at Severus's words. He was just as bad as the younger Potter, at least in that way, Severus reflected; both of them forever and always tried to put the burden of guilt upon themselves. Lupin, for putting Severus, his friends, and—much later—Potter, Granger, and Weasley in danger; and Potter himself, who had the singularly unfortunate ability to lose everyone close and dear to him. (The Potter from before, not now; the Potter now was beating himself around the head about only one death, that of Cedric Diggory, and even that had been a year ago.) "And Potter—_James_ Potter—thinking himself so high and mighty…"

"Er." Lupin shifted slightly in his chair. "About that… you remember the last Occlumency lesson you had with Harry?"

Severus fixed him with a steely glower. "Yes." _Oh god, not again, I already heard the lecture from Albus… but how the hell was I supposed to react? Pat Potter on the head and give him a quick slap on the wrist? I'm _supposed _to be a horrible, nasty tempered teacher. And Black already tried to yell at me; you think that's _pleasant?

"Harry—Harry was stunned, you know. He wasn't—he wasn't happy about what James did. He's not his father, Severus."

"Perhaps he is not his father," Severus conceded rather grudgingly, "but he possesses qualities which are just as irritating. He seems to be under the impression that he should be given free rein and be allowed to break the rules and all that whatnot. And the Headmaster _lets_ him. And he thinks that if he is not informed of whatever might be occurring, the world will be destroyed."

"Harry means well, Severus."

"Means well, but doesn't use his brain, what little he has. And if he hadn't gone after the Stone five years ago, then Quirrell would have been caught anyway. He should have informed us about the Chamber of Secrets so he wouldn't have been injured and we could have been prepared. He should not have been outside, breaking curfew, when Black appeared, and he continues to be unaware of the fact that so far, when he has interfered, he has only served to bungle everything." Severus thoughtfully twirled the fork in his hand, and added, "He insinuates himself into every situation. Hardly the _Chosen_ One. More like the One Who Voluntarily Gets Into Disasters and Botches Them Up."

Lupin said, "It's not like he _wanted_ to be chosen, Severus. You know as well as I do that he'd give all of this up to have his parents back in a heartbeat."

Severus's pointed glance radiated scepticism. "Of course he would say that," he drawled. "Even though he doesn't even know what his beloved parents were like."

"Oh, Severus, I know you didn't like James—"

_Hmm. I despised him, actually. Didn't have much common sense—or intelligence. Though even he knew that he was no match for me in academics and duelling—that's why he preferred to try and gang up on me when he could. Gryffindor courage—as if. I'll bet he never told any of you about the time we fought near the greenhouse, after the exams in fourth year. He lost_.

_That was a fun duel_.

"—but even you didn't mind Lily. You two were Potions partners in your sixth year, weren't you?"

Severus raised an eyebrow. "Lily? Well, she _was_ intelligent, but she matters about as much to Potter as _nil_. Have you noticed that he's always asking about Potter, and never his mother?"

Lupin was frowning. "What do you mean? Of course Harry cares about Lily!"

"Really? And all these years, I highly doubt that he even knows what her favourite subject was."

"Potions, you mean."

"And he's a total waste of talent—all Potter dreams about is _Quidditch_, and he doesn't even care about all that Potions talent, _wasted_."

Severus's words rang in the air. Lupin looked unsure as how to answer that, so he didn't reply; instead, he cupped his hands around his cup of tea and sipped at the drink.

The kitchen was eerily quiet now, Lupin lost in his own thoughts, so Severus reached into the back of his mind and nudged his connection to Hogwarts. It had been momentarily blocked—Severus had insisted on it—when he had been dealing with Lupin and the lycanthropy, and Hogwarts had agreed, if grudgingly so. Now the castle filtered back into his consciousness. _Are you done now_? the castle grumbled.

_Oh, I've been done for a while_, Severus replied easily.

_And you didn't tell me earlier_. Hogwarts sounded grumpy.

_I was busy_!

_Well, of course you were_.

Severus ignored the sarcasm in the words. Instead, he said, _So, how have you been for the past day or so_?

Nothing's happened, Hogwarts said. The centaurs are as withdrawn as ever. It seems the Ministry was not interested in why they intervened at Hogsmeade, and passed it off as them defending their territory.

_Good for the centaurs, then_, Severus remarked. _I'll be back in a few minutes. I'd like another try at working with that gun I bought in Johannesburg_.

The castle made a mental shift which, translated to sound, might have sounded like a chuckle. _Just make sure you don't get in an accident_.

_Of course not. When have I ever_?

Hogwarts said, _Well_…

_Never mind that_, Severus said hastily. Aloud he said, "I'm leaving, Lupin. I'll be at Hogwarts if you need to find me."

Lupin looked up at Severus; the pensive look faded from his face, and he nodded amiably and smiled. "Have a good day, Severus."

Severus didn't respond; he had already left the kitchen and was opening the door of 12 Grimmauld Place, letting in thin, wavering rays of bright, blinding sunlight.

**oOo**

_Ping_!

The silver bullet struck the very edge of the bull's eye target Severus had set up in his rooms, and stayed there.

Severus frowned, and straightened up from the crouch he had been in. _My aim_, he said almost mournfully, _is horrible_. (Except that Severus was never mournful, of course, so he was merely annoyed.)

_It's all right_, the castle said in a mollifying tone. _You haven't been practising much, you'll get used to it_.

Severus's reply was an absent minded grunt, as he turned the gun over in his hands. It was a sleek, black semiautomatic handgun, its compactness deceiving in its usefulness. Especially when it could provide an endless supply of quickly conjured up bullets (requiring some magical energy, of course).

_Besides_, Hogwarts added, _it's almost time for lunch, and you need to socialise more_.

_Oh Merlin_, Severus said. _Not you too. Albus already badgers me about that every day_.

_Yes, me too_.

Severus sighed; then he became aware of the slight soreness in his neck, and the stiffness in his legs. _Fine. As you say_.

_As the mother hen demands_, he added sardonically to himself.

Luckily, Hogwarts didn't pick that up, or otherwise Severus might have had a headache worse than the usual, due to her ill fury.

Five minutes later, in his usual attire (that is, everything in black), Severus closed the door of his quarters behind him, allowing a passing draft of air to blow across his neck. Walking through Hogwarts's corridors, he finally came to the Great Hall, where he found most of the professors already seated and chatting with each other. Struck by a sudden desire to go back down into the privacy of his rooms, he instead went ahead and grudgingly walked up to the long table, pulling out a chair and sitting down between Albus and Minerva.

Albus smiled cheerfully at him. His bright blue eyes twinkled, as usual (_Annoying twinkle_, Severus thought. _How can he be so happy, right before school begins again and dunderheads sit in my classroom once more_…?). "Severus!" he said. "It's nice to see you out of your rooms, for once. You must come up more often."

"Hmm," Severus said, and decided to let Albus think what he wanted of that.

On his other side, Minerva said, "Oh, don't be such a grouch, Severus. Aren't you happy you have the Defence job?"

"Yes," Severus muttered, shooting Albus a significant glance. Albus affected not to notice it.

Minerva gave _him_ a concerned glance, evidently troubled as to his unusual—even for him—reticence, but said nothing. Just as Albus had pretended not to see Severus's glare, so Severus pretended not to notice Minerva's inquiring look.

For not the first time, Severus wondered as to why the fates decreed that he must hold the Defence position the year Draco Malfoy was assigned his task, that of killing the Powerful and Revered Leader of the Light. At least this time around, he was not bound by any pesky Unbreakable Vow, although he supposed he must do his best to make sure Draco didn't kill Albus (or anyone else, for that matter, although he supposed there might be extenuating circumstances, such as Fenrir Greyback or the Carrows.). However, events were still treading perilously close to that which he was trying to do his best to prevent, and he was not comfortable at all with it. Draco Malfoy might waver this time, and desist from murder, but…

But he was also uneasy about the fact that the Dark Lord desperately wanted Albus dead. Perhaps he had overreacted in his letters from Johannesburg by writing that the Dark Lord would want him to kill Albus—as if the Dark Lord wanted to lose his spy, Severus thought, and inwardly berated himself for reacting excessively so—and this time he might be able to persuade Draco somehow to turn away from the Dark Lord, but…

That was the problem, wasn't it? Too many buts.

Then again, Severus thought, having too many buts was better than the alternative.

"… but thank Merlin, the Weasley twins are at least gone." Severus looked over. Minerva was speaking to Filius. Albus, on the other side, was thoroughly engaged with Magna Vector in a discussion on equations and how to reach equilibrium.

"They caused such an unholy amount of havoc, indeed," Filius said. "Their work with charms was very well done, though."

"I quite agree," Severus added to the conversation, his voice a slight drawl. "Although the only time _I_ ever enjoyed their immature behaviour was with the fireworks and the swamp last year."

Minerva glanced at Severus, a faint smile playing about her lips. "Well," she said, "I promise I won't tell them you actually liked it. It would spoil your bad reputation, and I'm sure you don't want that, do you?"

Severus shrugged. "What can I say?" he asked dryly. "I did always feel that Dolores Umbridge fit in quite well with the swamp—she did a very passable imitation of a toad, after all, albeit with an ugly pink bow and cardigan."

His last statement was met with smiles of amusement from both Minerva and Filius. Minerva raised her goblet of water. "Let's drink to her ill-being, shall we?"

"Quite," said Filius.

"I think I can agree to that as well," Severus said, and the clink of three glasses coming together sounded at the table, an airy, uplifting tinkle that contrasted with Severus's rather more gloomier thoughts.

**oOo**

Of course, Harry is sometimes forced into situations he most certainly does not want, but then again, Severus Snape is not the most unbiased of people.

If everyone who reads this chapter contributes a review... I'm trying for a triple digit review count, so please review!

Talriga


	12. Chapter 12

See Ch. 1 for disclaimer.

Thanks to all my loyal reviewers! Not quite all the way to 100, but… (passes out slabs of Honeydukes chocolate anyway)

And now after that, I feel guilty about this chapter. Because it's almost pathetically short…

Oh well. In any case, here is:

**Chapter 12**

"_Expelliarmus_!"

The force of the uttered spell took Draco by surprise; his wand went sailing out of his hand and into the hand of his aunt, and Draco went down to the floor, feeling curiously as though all the breath had been knocked out of him.

Bellatrix Lestrange stepped out of the shadowed corner of the room, frowning openly. "You ought to be on your guard, Draco," she said harshly. "I believe I've told you that many times already."

"Yes, Aunt Bellatrix," Draco muttered. He struggled to his feet, and Bellatrix tossed him his wand. "Take your place," she said. "Let us see how much you have improved since the last time we met." She raised her own wand, and Draco prepared himself for the inevitable onslaught. She had the rather disorienting tendency to launch attacks, mental or physical, without warning, and Draco did not like that, the lack of knowledge as to which she would choose—

"_Legilimens_!"

Hastily and somewhat clumsily, Draco brought up his Occlumency shields, but Bellatrix's forceful mental attack seemed to simply charge full force into them, making the surface of his painstakingly wrought shields buckle up due to the strain. Parts of them _did_ hold, but he winced slightly as her forceful, blunt attack punched through one section, making a break in his defence that could, most accurately, be visualised as a gaping fissure, its edges jagged and uneven.

And then Aunt Bellatrix was relentlessly pounding, assailing his memories…

… "_Why was I named Draco in the first place?" He sat in the high, straight backed chair, his (still chubby with baby fat) legs swinging a full quarter of a foot above the ground. The windows were wide open, Narcissa Malfoy sitting in a regal pose at the piano and picking out a tune, before she turned to face him and smiled…_

… "_A Malfoy must be, above all, proud of his heritage." His father rested his hand on his shoulder, as they stood amid the ridiculously loud bustle at Platform Nine and Three Quarters. "Do not tolerate such slurs to your name and family in silence…"_

… "_Clueless fools," Daphne Greengrass said angrily, and looked on in disdain as she and Draco swung away from a group of giggling Hufflepuff second-years. "Lockhart's a damn idiot…"_

…_He tried hard to control the burning anger—and shame—that was slowly creeping its way up his face, as the school laughed and laughed at how thoroughly the Inquisitorial Squad had made fools of themselves, standing helplessly by as the Weasley twins whirled sharply around on their broomsticks and made their grand exit. _Stupid! _he thought. _Just because Father said so, why do I have to flatter Umbridge? She's an asinine woman, and the only thing good about her is that she doesn't like Potter…

Bellatrix left his mind, and Draco staggered to one side. Glaring sullenly at his aunt, he said, his voice irritable, "Are you done now?"

Aunt Bellatrix's dark eyes glared back at him, a certain _look_ in her eyes, which made Draco suddenly drop his own eyes to the floor.

"I'd have expected better of you," Bellatrix said coldly. "You are returning to Hogwarts tomorrow, Draco, and if you are unable to conceal your very thoughts, you will hardly be able to carry out your task."

Draco made sure to keep his eyes from meeting those of Bellatrix, and thought, _Of course I can do well on my shields, dear Aunt Bellatrix, especially when you're _smashing _through them before I have a chance to learn to reinforce them at all. Merlin. No wonder you've never had children_.

He was glad he could think these somewhat more uncharitable than should be towards family thoughts in his mind, since Aunt Bellatrix, although a Legilimens, was a brutal and heavy-handed Legilimens; she didn't have the finesse that allowed a more skilled one to skim the minds of nearby people on the surface and dive within the depths of the mind without having to look them in the eye. Now that, Draco thought, was a much more useful ability than Bellatrix's method. What was the point of launching a Legilimency attack if your subject knew about it and broke eye contact? And such a blatant probe, too. Hardly… Slytherin, really.

"You are still off guard," Bellatrix observed. Draco looked up now, looking at her mouth instead of her eyes. She had a familiar mouth, he thought to himself, his mother's mouth, the Black lips which tilted ever so slightly at the corner in what they called the "signature of Venus." Of course, the effect was promptly marred when she spoke and revealed her teeth; existing over a decade in Azkaban (because you couldn't _live_, never live, in that prison) had not been very kind to the status of her dentals. "You must have your Occlumency shields up at all times, not putting them up just when I perform Legilimency. Have you been practising?"

"Yes, I have," Draco replied, careful to keep the tone of exasperation out of his voice. "Every night, before I go to bed."

Bellatrix raised an eyebrow. Once upon a time, her minuscule action must have seemed regal, arrogant… _Black_… but now it was just a movement, a stretch of skin over her sunken, wasted face. "Then practise more."

With those words, she stepped forward. "You will have to practise raising your Occlumency shields," she continued, "maintaining them at all times. That way, no-one will know what you mean to do. Certainly not _Snape_." She spat the last word out like it was a particularly disgusting name.

"But Professor Snape's one of us, isn't he?" Draco asked, but without surprise; there was a faint air of forbearance about him, as he resigned himself to listening to another of Bellatrix's many tirades. Every other session or so, Aunt Bellatrix would inevitably end up railing against one of her fellow Death Eaters, whether it be Crabbe for not thinking quickly enough, or Rookwood for not respecting her enough, or Rodolphus Lestrange (her own husband) for not having a spine and a backbone enough, or even Evan Rosier for dying ("And leaving me to work with fools!" she snapped.).

"Oh, he _says_ he is," she snarled. "Being all respectful before the Dark Lord, nodding and smirking and thinking he's all so great—he lives at Hogwarts, for Merlin's sake!"

_Someone_, Draco thought dryly, _has a bad case of jealousy. Of course, Professor Snape _does _make a much better teacher than you, my dear aunt. Anyone would_. "Well, he has to. He is a spy," he said cautiously and slowly, trying to sense Bellatrix's reaction.

"And you can never trust spies," Bellatrix returned, her eyes large and dark in her face, burning with some incandescent flame—Draco decided it was rage.

"And," Draco ventured, "he did promise Mother he would protect me this year."

Bellatrix sneered. "So he could get all the glory, I'm sure."

"What do you mean?" Draco said warily. He felt somewhat bound to defend his professor and Head of House; Snape had always been, if not exactly kind, impartial in his dealings with the Slytherins, and although he had never made any effort to endear himself to his students, the Slytherins respected him and felt strangely loyal to him. (And perhaps it was that feeling of experiencing the entire world set against them.)

"Exactly what I mean," said Bellatrix, and pressed her lips together. "Now, let's have some more practice, shall we, Draco? _Expelliarmus_!"

Draco dodged the jet of light that flew his way, dropping down into a slight crouch, his knees bent slightly so as to allow a breadth of movement in either direction. "_Fresnan_!"

Bellatrix did not blink an eye at the borderline Dark freezing curse; she blocked it with a nonverbal _Scield_, a spell nearly like _Protego_ except that it split the stopped spell in two, sending two jets of light back towards Draco, who inwardly cursed and quickly jumped to one side, retaliating with a "_Stupefy_!"

And around ten minutes later, Draco lay on his back in the room, feeling much as he had felt at the very beginning of the session when Aunt Bellatrix had disarmed him. Bellatrix stepped over to his immobile body, having rendered him harmless with a swiftly cast _Petrificus Totalus_. "_Finite Incantatem_," she said lazily, and the stiffness left Draco's limbs.

As he sat up, rubbing ruefully at his sore back, Bellatrix said, "Good, Draco. Your duelling is at least at an acceptable level, although I advise you to train yourself to move faster. And to use more forceful spells—you should be aware of the fact that I am being easy on you. And work on Occlumency. I'm going to speak with your mother now." And without any other words, she strode from the room, pausing at the doorway to turn around and throw Draco's wand to him. Draco caught it deftly and looked up to see Bellatrix gone.

Muttering slightly under his breath some uncomplimentary things about Bellatrix, Draco got up and left the room. The room was one of the many secret rooms in the lower depths of Malfoy Manor, and Draco gladly breathed in the fresh air that swirled around his face as he emerged from the dank passage. He glanced to one side to see the windows all wide open—Mother had probably chosen to let in some air, he decided, and on a sudden notion pointed his wand at one of the windows and murmured, "_Revealo_."

A blue shimmer faintly flashed around the edges of the window. Draco pocketed his wand and nodded to himself. Mother was intelligent; she had cast Obscuring charms on all the windows so what was inside could not be seen from without. Having an escaped fugitive walk along the corridors of Malfoy Manor was not particularly conducive to staying out of Azkaban prison, nor escaping the Ministry's suspicious watch. Not, of course, that they could ever escape it.

He strolled down the corridor, looking out the windows every once in a while. It was nearing the end of summer, and the Wiltshire scenery was changing with it. Malfoy Manor had been built centuries ago, by some Malfoy ancestor of whose name Draco could never remember—wasn't it something that started with a "B"?—Byldan Malfoy, that was it. Situated halfway between the town of Steeple Langford and the famed archaeological landmark Stonehenge, it had been home to the Malfoy family for as long as… as long as…

Draco closed his eyes momentarily, allowing the warm rays of sunlight to play across his face, feeling the golden glow pulse against his eyelids…

… _Bracken and bramble gleam in the light of the setting sun as they come to a small granite bridge. As they cross the stream, the small, blond haired boy looks down at the water. The life-giving substance gushes swiftly downstream, spraying water on the riverbanks and foaming amidst grey boulders. The boy's eyes follow the stream's route as it winds away and disappears out of sight at a curve, embarking into a valley._

_The sun is fast receding in the west. Shadows leap from rock to rock, occasionally getting tangled in the russet and olive slopes. They creep up to trees, before fleeing in a panic from the branches that suddenly and violently swerve down to the ground—there is a strong wind blowing. And the land seems to exude an enchanting gloom and darkness_…

_Wiltshire_, Draco thought abruptly, _is beautiful_.

His second thought was a wistful one: _I wish Father were here_.

His third thought was rather more sour: _I wonder how many surveillance wards the Ministry has placed around the Manor_.

With the occurrence of that thought, he scowled to himself. Draco and Narcissa Malfoy could no longer even take their idyllic trips out into the country; they could not look at the scenery with appreciation under the knowledge they were followed, their every action marked down. And the third member of their family… was gone. Draco thought it almost surprising that the Ministry had not yet decided to put tracking charms on their wands to record what spells they performed. _Thank Merlin for that_.

_Don't be ridiculous_, he told himself. _This is no time to be reminiscing about scenery—you have a task to perform this year_.

In his mind, he envisioned a calendar, on which he crossed off the last day of August. The first school day, the first of September, was circled in green ink. And he thought of necklaces, and poisons, trying desperately not to feel nervous.

So he stepped away from the tantalisingly open spaces, and the halcyon days of his childhood.

**oOo**

"Scield" is Old English for "shield," from a prehistoric Germanic word, meaning "to split."

"Byldan" is Old English for "to construct a house." Steeple Langford is a real town in Wiltshire, near a river: I looked at the map and the distance from Steeple Langford to Stonehenge, and decided to set Malfoy Manor somewhere in between.

I apologize for the brief update. But real life is shouting for more attention, and I have a math contest (statewide, trig/precalculus) and a piano competition (multi-state, insanely hard to get into the finals—argh!) both this Saturday, and I need to go study and practice…

Since this chapter, I admit, was rather hastily written, if there are any discrepancies or such that you find in this chapter, make a note of it in a review. Of course, if you don't see anything wrong with it, you can review anyway, and praise me to high heaven. ; )

And this question is one I'd like for you to answer in your review, althought you don't necessarily have to if you don't have time: What were your thoughts on HBP when you read it? Did you like it or dislike it, and why? Just out of curiosity.

Next chapter: Hogwarts, here we come! (finally!)

**IMPORTANT NOTE:** The next update will be the Monday after next; that is, a two week wait instead of the usual one. But as I've said above, real life demands me to go do some work. I'm very sorry about it, but the here and now can't be denied (unfortunately).

Please review!

Talriga


	13. Chapter 13

See Ch. 1 for disclaimer.

(blinks) Well, I managed to get this chapter done a few days before I'd expected to post it. So, earlier update. And thanks to all my reviewers! Your feedback is greatly appreciated.

**Chapter 13**

Neville stuck his hand into his pocket; frowned; pulled his hand out, and said, "I can't find Trevor."

His grandmother, Augusta Longbottom, turned to face him, adjusting her vulture-adorned hat and frowning, her thin lips pressed tightly together. "Oh, use a summoning charm, Neville. Surely you can do that." She said it sharply, and somewhat stridently. They had just come into Platform Nine and Three Quarters, and Neville felt relieved that the noise there was so loud that no-one else seemed to have heard her comment.

_That was fourth year material_, Neville thought. _I'm starting sixth year. I'm not quite that bad, really_. He pulled out his wand awkwardly (_cherry and unicorn hair, brand new_, he noted with an inward thrill) and said, "_Accio Trevor_!" And thus commenced the return of the prodigal toad into Neville's waiting hands.

When he looked up, his grandmother was already cutting a path through the crowds up to the Hogwarts Express. He hurried up behind her, trying to conceal his breathlessness.

"Now, Neville," Augusta Longbottom said, her hand heavy on his shoulder as she pushed him forward, "do well at school. That was impressive, what you did at Hogwarts. Your father would be proud."

Neville suppressed a sudden smile threatening to break out onto his face, and succeeded. "All right," he said.

"And make sure to do well in your Transfiguration N.E.W.T. class—I'll be speaking to Professor McGonagall about your progress."

Neville didn't think he would be making much progress; at the most, he might manage to scrape through—he had only gotten an Acceptable, after all. "Yes, Gran," he said somewhat more dully, and hauled his trunk onto the train. As he turned around, the last glimpse he caught of his imposing grandmother was the familiar hat, with the vulture perched on it and glaring, its eyes dead and glassy, at everyone. He thought of Snape the Boggart, and grinned. "_Riddikulus_," he said to himself.

He struggled his way through the rather crowded corridors, and then someone tapped him on the shoulder and said, "Hello, Neville."

He startled slightly and whirled around. Luna Lovegood looked back at him with her large misty eyes. "Oh, Luna," Neville said, vaguely relieved to see someone with whom he could talk and not feel somewhat ridiculous (as he usually did), considering that Luna herself said rather strange things, even if she accepted them as commonplace. "It's you."

"Yes, it's me," Luna said rather dreamily, without any sarcasm. She had a copy of the_ Quibbler_ held close to her chest, with a large bold sign saying that there was a free pair of Spectrespecs inside. "How was your summer?"

Neville shrugged. "Good enough, I suppose," he replied. "Gran kept talking about what happened at Hogwarts and all that. I think she liked us making Umbridge mad, and," here he smiled pensively, "she said that she thought my father would be proud of me."

"How would she know?" Luna asked, her voice mild, with the tone of a scientist stating a fact. "She isn't your father, is she?"

Neville blinked. "No."

"Then why would she say that?" Luna returned quizzically. Neville didn't quite know how to reply. Then Luna looked past Neville, over his shoulder. "Look," she said simply. "There's Harry."

Neville looked. He saw a gaggle of girls grouped together, and a flash of red hair, and unruly black. For a moment, he caught a glimpse of Harry's face, bewildered by the attention focussed upon him, and decided that he might as well save Harry from the kind of attention that he most certainly did not want right now on the Hogwarts Express. So he started towards his beleaguered friend.

"Hi, Harry!" he called out loudly. Harry swung his head around and saw Neville; Neville noticed the very faint signs of relief on Harry's face. Harry began pushing his way through the others, trying to ignore them. "Neville!" he shouted.

Behind Neville, Luna said, "Hello, Harry."

Harry nodded, a small smile on his face. "Luna, hi, how are you?"

"Very well, thank you," Luna replied blandly.

"_Quibbler_ still going strong, then?" Harry asked. Neville had the impression that he was desperately casting around for some neutral topic to chat about in front of the blatant starers. Neville abruptly felt a wave of sympathy for Harry. He hadn't asked You-Know-Who to attack him and make him the Boy-Who-Lived, after all. Neville himself felt rather glad that _he_ wasn't in Harry's situation—he didn't think he could've stood it.

"Oh yes, circulation's well up."

Harry nodded again, and then said, "Let's find seats," in a hurried sort of tone, as much as Neville had expected.

A few moments later, they had struggled their way into a compartment, Harry still looking somewhat embarrassed. Neville said, somewhat amused, "They're even staring at _us_! Because we're with you!"

Harry looked as though he would rather not think that. "They're staring at you because you helped me too, at Hogwarts," he replied as he swung his trunk up into the luggage rack. "I mean, after all that uproar over the Death Eaters actually being there, there's been a ridiculous number of articles on us in the _Daily Prophet_, you must've seen it."

"Well, yes, I've seen it," Neville said, absent mindedly checking his pockets for Trevor, and finding that, yes, the toad was surprisingly still in his place. "I mean, the newspapers like that type of story. I thought Gran would be angry at the publicity, but she seemed rather pleased."

Luna was busily detaching the free psychedelically coloured Spectrespecs from her copy of the _Quibbler_. "Really?" she asked as she finished detaching the Spectrespects and put it on. "Actually, I would much rather have had Daddy put the Wrackspurt article on page one, but one of his writers told him it was probably best to have that and something about Harry being the Chosen One as well."

"Oh Merlin," Harry muttered. "Not that 'Chosen One' nonsense."

"Wrackspurts?" Neville asked curiously.

"A Wrackspurt—you know. They're invisible. They float in through your ears and make your brain go fuzzy. And don't worry, Harry. I didn't think you were the Chosen One, and Daddy put an article about Scrimgeour on the front page instead. He's a vampire." Luna stated all of this with the usual confidence that it was the real truth. Neville and Harry, on the other hand, were not half as sure that any of the mentioned "vampire Scrimgeour" article was reality.

"Oh," Neville said in a falsely bright voice. "That's interesting." He and Harry looked at each other and hastily began talking about Quidditch.

The weather outside seemed somewhat contrary; sometimes the train passed through murky, heavy mists; other times, it came into weak, mottled patches of sunlight. It was during one of the brighter moments that Ron and Hermione came into the compartment briefly, dropping in on them before setting off on their prefect duties.

"Hi, Neville. Hi, Luna," Ron said, falling into one of the seats. Hermione echoed his greetings. "Can't wait for the lunch trolley, I'm hungry."

"You're always hungry," Hermione muttered under his breath. Neville stifled a laugh. Hermione said, "Come on, Ron. We might as well finish our patrol shift—"

There was a timid knocking at the door. Ron swung it open, to reveal a rather nervous looking third-year. "I'm—I'm supposed to deliver this to Harry Potter," she said, breathless. She looked up at Harry, and turned bright scarlet. Harry did not seem to have noticed; he took the scroll, tied with violet ribbon, and unrolled it, frowning.

"What is it?" Ron asked.

There was something which looked faintly like a grimace on Harry's face. "An invitation," he said.

Neville looked over Harry's shoulder at the parchment.

_Harry,_

_I would be delighted if you would join me for a bite of lunch in compartment C._

_Sincerely,_

Professor H. E. F. Slughorn

"Dunno what he wants," Harry muttered under his breath. "Oh well, might as well see what happens. See you." And looking as though he would rather not, he trudged out of the compartment, Ron and Hermione following him before they split ways.

Only about a minute later, the door slid open again and Seamus Finnigan came in, along with Gillian West, a seventh-year Ravenclaw who also ran the school's betting pools. "Hi, Neville!" Seamus said.

Gillian West gazed around the compartment. Her dark green eyes lit upon Luna, and she said, her voice carefully neutral, "Hello, Luna." Neville rather had the feeling that only a bare handful of people chose to voluntarily seek out the company of Luna Lovegood; Gillian West, who he knew very vaguely from hearing about Fred and George Weasley's dealings with her, did not seem to be an exception.

Luna smiled at them all in a rather hazy way, and returned her attention to her copy of the _Quibbler_.

"Hey!" Neville nodded at them, smiling.

Seamus grinned back. "You don't mind us sitting down, do you?"

"No, it's all right. Although it may get a little crowded later, because Ron and Hermione are off doing their duties, and Harry got invited by…" Neville frowned. "I suppose the new Defence professor. Professor Slughorn."

"Really?" Gillian said with interest, leaning forward. "Slughorn, Slughorn… I've already got a betting pool going about the new Defence teacher. Slughorn… can't say I remember any mention of his name."

"A betting pool?" Neville asked.

"Yeah," Seamus said. "I'm the bookie for the Gryffindor bets. What do you think this year, evil or useless?"

"Personally, I would go for useless," Gillian said, sounding cynical. "I mean, just _look_ at the others."

"Knowing my luck, I'd take evil," Neville said glumly.

"What about smart?" Luna said suddenly from behind her paper. "He could be a good teacher, couldn't he?"

Gillian laughed. "What are the chances of that?" she said almost scornfully. "You've got to wonder who jinxed the Defence position in the first place—I mean, whoever it was did a fantastically good job of it. I'll place ten Galleons that the new Defence professor will die this year."

"Hope not," Neville said fervently. "I feel sorry for the poor bloke; you wonder how Dumbledore must have persuaded him to take the job."

Seamus shrugged. "Who knows?" he said. "Anyhow—ah well, we need to finish taking any wagers today."

Neville frowned. "But how do you make the others pay up?"

"Magic, of course," Seamus said.

Gillian nodded and elaborated. "Magically binding contracts. My personal specialty. You see," here her voice took on a tone of merciless relish, "if they refuse to pay when they've already sworn that they would if they lost, any type of food they're trying to eat turns to dust—for an entire week."

"But that's starvation!" Neville said, surprised.

"No, it isn't," Gillian said delicately. "You see, no-one's ever broken the contract." She smiled. It was a satisfied, sharp-edged smile. "I'm very good at that type of stuff, you see."

Neville blinked. "Yeah," he said finally. "I see."

"It's like a more lenient form of the Unbreakable Vow," Gillian said. "At least it doesn't kill you if you break it. I'm planning to go into finance after school. The Yanks in America have that wizarding stock exchange of theirs, and I think I could get apprenticed to one of their financial traders."

"Oh," Neville said, his interest sparked slightly. "That sounds exciting."

"It is," Gillian said blandly, and pulled out a copy of the _Daily Prophet_, flipping to the business section. She then produced an eagle feather quill out of her pocket. "Now, let's see—Seamus, Leanne put down five that the teacher's useless, right?"

"Yeah. And Zacharias Smith bet fifteen Galleons that the jinx would be broken, though I don't know what he was thinking—he probably did it just to be contrary. It's silly of him, though—the post hasn't been held for over a year by any one person since…" he waved his hand vaguely.

"Ah," Gillian muttered. "So Neville, Luna, make a bet?"

"No," Neville said. Self-deprecatingly, he added, "I'd probably get it all wrong anyway. I always do."

Gillian rolled her eyes. "Don't be ridiculous. No-one can possibly be wrong all the time, just like no-one can always be right." She stood up, her paper clutched in her hands. "Well, there's still the Slytherin compartment to tackle. I'll see you, Seamus—I've got to talk to Blaise Zabini. He's my contact there."

Neville frowned. "And he doesn't insult you?"

Gillian gave him a look, raising an eyebrow. "He respects people who give him a _reason_ to do so. No Gryffindors, of course, he thinks you all are too impulsive for your own good. Which you are," she muttered. "No offence, Seamus, but it's the truth. Good day."

She left, the door shutting behind her with a succinct _click_.

After she had left, Luna lowered her paper and commented, "She's very forceful, isn't she?"

"Yeah," said Neville.

"She's honest about her dealings, though," Seamus said. "We get a percentage of the revenue, based on the amount from each House."

"It sounds like it's a lucrative deal," Luna said. "And her contracts seem to be very effective."

Seamus laughed. "That, they are."

**oOo**

"_Such_ rumours this summer," Slughorn said, looking speculatively at Harry as though he were a particularly rare specimen of coelacanth. "Of course, one doesn't know what to believe, the _Prophet_ has been known to print inaccuracies, make mistakes—but there seems little doubt, given the number of witnesses, that there was _quite_ a disturbance at the Ministry!"

Harry, not knowing what to say without outright lying, instead said nothing and nodded. He had not expected much when he had received the invitation—only, perhaps, a professor who was as curious as the other students on the Hogwarts Express as to the legend of the Boy-Who-Lived.

Horace Slughorn had been a bit of a surprise. After five years of tall, thin, black-haired, sarcastic Snape stalking around their caldrons, Harry had been rather taken aback when he had come into the compartment and met Slughorn for the first time. He was enormously… a politically correct term that could be used to describe him was "heavy," although that was probably an understatement. Old and balding, he possessed a broad shiny pate and a magnificently twirled silver mustache. He also made Harry feel uncomfortable with his constant questioning; it was as though he were determined to discover something astoundingly magnificent about Harry. And Harry couldn't escape his inquiries either by directing Slughorn's attention elsewhere—he had been the only one invited to Slughorn's "bite of lunch," no doubt so Slughorn, in his infinite curiosity, could concentrate upon the Boy-Who-Lived, the One Who Had Defeated Voldemort During His First Rise. Harry inwardly grimaced.

Seeing Harry's hesitant nod, Slughorn beamed. "So modest, so modest, no wonder Dumbledore is so fond—so it _did_ happen there, then? But the rest of the stories—so sensational, of course, one doesn't know quite what to believe—this fabled prophecy, for instance—especially since the fracas was in the Hall of Prophecies—"

_Curse this "Chosen One" rubbish_! "I never heard a prophecy," Harry said, a note of desperation in his voice. "There wasn't any prophecy that I heard, never in the Ministry. I wasn't there." And it was true, wasn't it? He had heard the prophecy in Dumbledore's office, so he wasn't lying. Just… ah, editing the truth. "It's the _Prophet_ making stuff up, as usual."

"Ah," Slughorn said, his voice full of knowing, although he seemed somewhat disappointed. "That paper does tend to do it sometimes, although I'm sure they mean well. Pheasant, Harry?" He leaned forward, the golden buttons on his waistcoat glinting in the sunlight.

"Thank you, Professor," Harry said politely.

"No matter, no matter," Slughorn waved away the thanks, although Harry felt that he did so with the air of one who was loftily bestowing a gift upon him. "I'll be very eager to see you in my Potions classes—you did sign up for N.E.W.T. levels, right?"

"Yes, sir," Harry replied. "I'd like to become an Auror after Hogwarts."

"An Auror?" Slughorn said. "An admirable occupation. So you would be devoting your life to hunting down Dark wizards? But then again, you've had plenty of experience with that, considering You-Know-Who."

"I suppose so," Harry. Slughorn's words, echoing in his mind: _So you would be devoting your life to hunting down Dark wizards_? And suddenly, he knew in the depths of his heart that he did not want to. His whole life had been a war against Voldemort. After Voldemort, he would—voluntarily!—become a fighter against Dark wizards. And Harry felt a sudden weariness overtake his body, a type of numb lethargy, and all he wanted to do was to just sit here in a permanent state of sitting and never leave. He wanted to escape his terrible burden so very badly, and enjoy life the way it was meant to be enjoyed…

"… One of the brightest I ever taught—"

Harry quickly returned his attention to Slughorn, who was saying about his mother, "Vivacious, you know. Charming girl. I used to tell her she ought to have been in my House. Very cheeky answers I used to get back too."

"Which was your House?"

"I was Head of Slytherin," said Slughorn. Harry blinked. _Sirius, you didn't even bother to tell me that_! he thought. _But Sirius thought he's all right. Oh well_. Slughorn went on, a little defensively, "Oh, now, don't go holding that against me! You'll be Gryffindor like her, I suppose? Yes, it usually goes in families."

"So—my mother, she liked Potions?"

"_Liked_ Potions? It was her favourite subject, m'boy!" He seemed almost offended that Harry did not know that. "She was a genius in the class, the two of them, Lily Evans and Severus Snape, you know. They were partners in my sixth-year N.E.W.T.-level class, and they were the most amazing minds I've ever seen. If she had lived…" Slughorn shook his head. "That night she died, the world lost a great witch. And, Merlin, Severus could be great, he could be, they both had the most wonderful intuition with Potions, but he's teaching! Never thought he would be teaching!" His voice expressed unchecked surprise.

"My mum and Sn—Professor Snape," Harry quickly corrected himself; he decided to play it safe and address Snape by his title in front of Slughorn. "My mum and Professor Snape were Potions partners?"

"Yes, they were. Quite well matched—you couldn't tell which one was better, not ever! Brilliant, truly brilliant… On the other hand, your father was an excellent Quidditch player, he played Chaser…"

But that, Harry already knew. _My mum and Snape were Potions partners_? he thought, surprised. _But no-one ever told me about my mum liking Potions_…

_Harry, you prat_, another voice said pointedly in his head, sounding eerily like Hermione, _that's because you've never asked about her, you've only asked about your father_.

As Harry pondered this sudden realisation, Slughorn offered up some anecdotes about illustrious wizards and witches Slughorn had once taught, all of whom had been delighted to join what he called the "Slug Club" at Hogwarts. Harry, personally, thought the name somewhat… odd, and he would rather be with his friends than with Slughorn, but he couldn't quite find a way to leave without being impolite. It was only as the shadows began to encroach upon the compartment that Slughorn seemed to become aware of the time. He looked around at the lit lamps and, in the window, the distantly receding sunset. "Good gracious, it's getting dark already! I didn't notice that they'd lit the lamps! You'd better go and change into your robes. Harry, drop by any time you're passing. Off you go, off you go!"

And with that amiable dismissal, Harry was let go. He quickly raced back to the compartment, where Ron, Hermione, Neville, Luna, and Seamus were already in their robes. "Blimey, Harry," Ron said as the black-haired boy flung open compartment door and came in. "What took so long?"

Harry could feel a scowl work its way across his face. "Lots and lots of talking," he said. "Slughorn was all right, but Merlin!—he… sort of comes across as patronising. And he kept talking about his times at Hogwarts and everything. It was a little annoying."

Ron gave him a sympathetic look. "Yeah, well, some people do that. You'd better change, Harry, we're almost there."

The Hogwarts Express soon came to a halt. They got off the train (Harry absent mindedly noted a few Aurors who were standing guard at the station) and marched their way up to the not-exactly-horseless-per-se carriages (actually pulled by the invisible horses Thestrals, visible only to those who had witnessed a death), and piled into one of them. Their ride up to Hogwarts was filled with chatter about Quidditch—or, namely, Ron and Harry chattered about Quidditch, while Hermione, with a not wholly exasperated look—Harry could have sworn he saw amusement in her glance—talked to Neville and Luna about their summers.

The carriage ride swiftly passed by, and now they were getting out of the carriages—now they were hurrying toward the doors—now they were surging towards the house tables—now Harry was breathing in the inner magic of Hogwarts, feeling it hum through his body—

Hermione was looking at the first-years being led in by McGonagall. "Is it just me," she asked, "or are there fewer first-years than usual?"

"It's just you," drawled Ron sarcastically. Upon seeing Hermione's look, he hastily added, "And there are fewer first-years than usual."

Harry tried very hard not to snicker.

Across the Great Hall, Harry saw Malfoy glaring at him. Undaunted, Harry glared back.

McGonagall, oblivious to the silent war of lethal looks shooting across the Great Hall between Slytherins and Gryffindors—or perhaps she was so used to it that she rarely noticed it anymore—had taken out the stool and set the patched, worn Sorting Hat upon it. Harry smiled reminiscently at the confused looks some of the prospective first-years had on their faces. It so reminded him of the time he himself had been a first-year, and had been standing nervously under the awe-inspiring ceiling of the Great Hall…

The Transfiguration professor was busying herself with unrolling the scroll which served as Hogwarts's first-year roster. The action went unnoticed, for most of the students' attention was focused on the Sorting Hat. At the brim of the hat, the seam had opened again, and the Hat began to sing. Although it was a regular event, Harry always liked to listen to the song (then again, he had missed the song so many times before…).

"_A thousand years or more ago,  
__When Hogwarts School was new,  
__The four great Founders gathered  
__And wondered what to do.  
__They all had their different loves  
__But not a way to choose  
__At last they found a way—right here!—  
__With nothing for you to lose._

_Cool Slytherin, from dark of fen  
__Prized cunning above all;  
__Daring Gryffindor, bold and loud  
__Who by courage was enthralled;  
__Kind Hufflepuff, gentle yet tough  
__Sought loyalty to friends;  
__Wise Ravenclaw, who most loved wit  
__Wanted cleverness without end._

_So it seemed to many  
__That Hogwarts was at peace—  
__But—alas!—it was not to last  
__For displeasure was unleashed;  
__The Founders quarrelled—what tragedy!—  
__Their concord fell into the abyss  
__And never again was great Hogwarts  
__The same with such a rift._

_Mark my words, all of you  
__I fear this may happen anew  
__I warned you once, a year ago  
__But you heeded not my clues.  
__So listen to me once more again  
__Must I say this times untold?  
__You must all join together—now!—  
__To prevent the clash of old._

_Put aside your rivalries—  
__Your petty dislikes and hates;  
__You perhaps are only human,  
__But much more is at stake!  
__To the students of Hogwarts, all,  
__I'll say this one more time:  
__You must join together as one  
__And above all remember my rhyme._"

The Sorting Hat fell silent. So did the Great Hall, apart from a few murmurs here and there. Hermione looked disturbed. "That's another time the Hat's sung about union," she said, frowning. "Friendship and bonding…"

"Well," said Ron, "I do hope it doesn't mean Malfoy."

Harry laughed quietly and rolled his eyes. "Would anyone want to be friends with Malfoy?"

"Crabbe and Goyle might," said Hermione wickedly.

Ron pretended to look very surprised. "Friends?" he said in bafflement. "I thought they were stupid stone gargoyles! I never knew they could think!" The three friends shared a moment of quiet amusement, and laughed.

But now McGonagall, after directing an odd look at the battered Sorting Hat, was saying in her usual stern, crisp voice, "When I call your name, please come up to the stool and put the Sorting Hat on. Abelson, Raymond!"

A short boy with dirty blond hair warily walked up to the stool and carefully set the Hat on his head. The Hat was quiet for a few moments, then—

"RAVENCLAW!"

The Ravenclaw table broke out in applause for their newest member. A small, hesitant smile appeared on Raymond Abelson's face as two third-years made room for him and shook his hand.

"Argyll, Patricia!"

A brown-haired, impatient-looking girl moved toward the stool quickly. She jammed the Hat down on her head, and was rewarded with a "GRYFFINDOR!"

Harry joined in the requisite clapping and congratulations as Patricia Argyll sat down at the other end of the Gryffindor table.

And so it went on. The first-years passed in a blur of people and sound for Harry—they sat down on the stool and the Sorting Hat proclaimed their House. And that was the end of the story. About the only hiccup in the Sorting ceremony was when "Schuhmacher, Evaline," a mousy, bored-looking girl, sat with the Sorting Hat on her head for a full five minutes. Students in the Great Hall were moving about impatiently by the time the Sorting Hat finally shouted out, "SLYTHERIN!"

The Slytherin table had a round of _very_ lukewarm applause. Hermione Granger, as usual, knew why. "She's a Muggle-born," she said as Evaline Schuhmacher walked toward the Slytherins, her head held high and a hard look on her face. "She won't have an easy time in Slytherin."

Harry and Ron were both inclined to agree.

But by the time the last first-year had been Sorted ("Zweig, Charles!"; "HUFFLEPUFF!"), their stomachs were grumbling too loudly for them to think about much else other than their hunger. So it was with relief and great alacrity that they started in upon the sumptuous Hogwarts dinner—Dumbledore, obviously sensing the hunger of the Hogwarts students, cheerfully told them to tuck in, and they needed no second encouragement.

Through mouthfuls of chicken, Ron asked him, "So what did you say to Slughorn about what happened at the Ministry?"

"Just told him all the talk was a load of rubbish. And I wouldn't know anything, since I wasn't there, but you know the _Prophet_—always tries to tie everything back to me." Harry conveniently omitted the fact of the prophecy.

Hermione sighed and shook her head. "Everyone on the train was asking us about it, weren't they, Ron?"

"Yeah," said Ron. "They all wanted to know if you really are the 'Chosen One'—"

"Oh God," Harry said. "Merlin preserve us from people who are too nosy for their own good."

"Quite frankly," Nearly Headless Nick said as he floated towards them, "_you_ and your friends are rather nosy yourselves. But I digress. There has been quite a bit of talk on that subject lately even amongst us ghosts." He seemed to straighten up slightly, as much as he could without having his barely connected head swing off. "I am considered something of a Potter authority; it is widely known that we are friendly. I have assured the spirit community that I will not pester you for information, however. 'Harry Potter knows that he can confide in me with complete confidence,' I told them. 'I would rather die than betray his trust.'"

"That's not saying much, seeing as you're already dead," Ron observed.

"Once again, you show all the sensitivity of a blunt axe," said Nearly Headless Nick, sounding rather outraged, and he glided away in somewhat of a temper.

"Ron!" Hermione said reproachfully, sipping from her goblet of pumpkin juice.

"What? It's true, isn't it?" Ron countered, and reached for a dish of beef stroganoff.

Hermione rolled her eyes. "There _is_ such a thing as tact, you know."

The feast passed in a relatively cheerful manner, with murmurings of conversation rising up in the Great Hall. Harry was nearly done with his dessert when Dumbledore got to his feet at the staff table. Most of the students had finished their feast, and were relaxing in their seats, talking and laughing, but the headmaster's voice was sharp enough to penetrate their pleasant food-induced stupors. Dumbledore glanced around, smiling, and said, "The very best of evenings to you! To our new students, welcome, to our old students, welcome back! Another year full of magical education awaits you!" He passed his eyes over all four tables benevolently, and then began dispensing the start-of-year announcements.

"—And I must remind students that the Forbidden Forest is, as always, forbidden. The name speaks for itself, and if any errant students happen to wonder in, they will find out exactly why it is forbidden.

"On a lighter note, caretaker Argus Filch would like for me to say that there is a blanket ban on all joke items bought at the shop Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes." Besides Harry, Ron laughed into the palm of his hand soundlessly. Harry still remembered the mucky swamp that the Weasley twins Fred and George had left as a gift for Umbridge the year before, and smirked too. "The list of banned items is put up outside Filch's office, and I urge all students to go and look at it." Nearby, Hermione sighed. They all knew quite well that no students ever bothered to go and look at it, and why Dumbledore affected the innocent façade about this issue, no one knew.

"Those wishing to play for their House Quidditch teams should give their names to their Heads of House as usual. We are also looking for new Quidditch commentators, who should do likewise.

"We are pleased to welcome a new member of staff this year. Professor Slughorn"—Slughorn stood up, his massive bulk casting shadows upon the table—"is a former colleague of mine who has agreed to resume his old post of Potions master."

"Mm-hmm," mumbled Harry. "Wish he'd get on with it—" Then he suddenly grasped the fact that while he, Ron, Hermione, and Ginny already knew about the staff change, the other students didn't—

"Potions?"

"_Potions_?"

The word echoed all over the Great Hall, as students wondered if they had heard right. A few seats down the table, Seamus dropped his fork, looking stunned, and his mouth open in an "O" of realisation.

"Professor Snape, meanwhile," said Dumbledore, his voice growing louder so as to be clearly heard over all the muttering," will be taking over the position of Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher."

Further down the table, Neville Longbottom choked violently on his strawberry trifle.

**oOo**

I originally intended to have the entire chapter with Harry's POV, but somehow Neville Longbottom managed to get in. Now, how did he sneak in there? Perhaps it's that last line in the Harry POV, start-of-year feast scene… (grins) I had an almost fiendish glee in writing that last sentence. Poor Neville!

Some of the dialogue in the Hogwarts Express scene is from _Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince_ (Ch. 4: Horace Slughorn; Ch. 7: The Slug Club; Ch. 8: Snape Victorious), although I've fiddled with it so as to fit it into the situation.

**IMPORTANT NOTE**: I do hope that everyone understands how real life gets in the way. I have three piano events in a row coming up: competition, masterclass, going to concert... The next update time is tentatively set at two weeks from Monday, but I may finish earlier and post Ch. 14 then. It depends on the time I have. Sorry about that.

I hope you enjoyed this chapter, and please review!

Talriga


	14. Chapter 14

See Ch. 1 for disclaimer.

Well. This chapter's up over a week after the last update, but before the deadline I set for myself. I really am underestimating my surprising ability to cram in time for writing. : ) Thanks to all my reviewers!

**Chapter 14**

"Was it just me," asked Ron, "or did Snape look different?"

Harry and Ron had met Hermione early that morning in the Gryffindor common room before breakfast. Harry stretched in his armchair. "I suppose so. Did he cut his hair?" None of them had seen Snape at all during the summer at 12 Grimmauld Place, a fact which they fully appreciated. "I wasn't really paying attention. I mean, we knew he was going to get the Defence position."

"Well, yes, _we_ knew. But no-one else did," Hermione said. "Did you see the expression on Neville's face?"

Ron snorted. "Who can blame him?" The three of them got up and started for the portrait hole, having noticed an increase in the trickle of people exiting the common room. "No-one likes Snape. You reckon he'll be gone by the end of the year?"

"Hopefully," Harry said. "But knowing him, he's the one who's going to break the jinx, I'll bet." He sounded glum.

Hermione sighed heavily. "Well, at least we know what to expect, you do realise that?"

"Insults," muttered Ron. "Ten points from Gryffindor. No, make that twenty. Calling us dunderheads. _Of course_ we know what to expect."

Trying to imitate Snape's tone of voice, Harry drawled, " '_I am fully astonished that you have managed to get even that small modicum of information into your heads_…'"

Ron shook his head. "Harry, give it up. That's nowhere close to his voice. No-one can act like Snape—he's got that sort of _character_ that won't let you do it." He paused, and then added, as they entered the Great Hall, "Not like you actually want to, right?"

"You think I have a death wish?" Harry muttered back.

"Sometimes," Hermione said, looking meaningfully at Harry, "both of you two—your actions seem to say that you do."

"Oh, _thanks_, Hermione," Ron said, the sarcasm obvious in his voice. "That is _so_ helpful. _So_ encouraging." The three of them sat down, and Harry looked up at the staff table. Snape wasn't there, but Hagrid was, and the half-giant cheerfully waved at them.

"Oh Merlin," Harry said, a sudden feeling of dread coming over him. He smiled weakly back at Hagrid and gave him a wave lacking the usual exuberance. "Are—are any of you taking Care of Magical Creatures?"

Hermione seemed to have realised what Harry had. "No," she said quietly.

"No," said Ron. He stole a glance at Hagrid. "Er—"

"We can always say that it couldn't fit into our schedules…" Harry began, his voice trailing off. He didn't think Hagrid would take it well if he were to tell his friend that he had chosen not to take N.E.W.T. Care of Magical Creatures because he would prefer to live instead of being mangled by dangerous, obviously lethal magical animals.

"I suppose so," Hermione said uncertainly.

After they had eaten, they remained in their seats. Professor McGonagall passed down the row of seated Gryffindor students, confirming everyone's class schedules to make sure that the necessary O.W.L. grades had been achieved in order to continue with their selected N.E.W.T. classes.

Hermione was promptly cleared for all of her classes, as expected, and quickly hurried off to her Ancient Runes class. Neville, on the other hand, took a little longer; McGonagall advised him to take Charms instead of Transfiguration, and Harry felt a little amused when he heard that Neville's grandmother had herself failed her Charms O.W.L. Parvati and Lavender both inquired about the centaur Firenze, and looked rather disappointed when McGonagall, her voice slightly disapproving, informed them that, no, Firenze was not teaching the sixth-year Divination classes. Harry and Ron were quickly cleared for the same classes: Charms, Defence Against the Dark Arts, Herbology, Transfiguration, and Potions. Ron was delighted with the schedules. "Look—we've got a free period now.. and a free period after break… and after lunch… _excellent_!"

They returned to their common room, buoyed by the prospect of a free period to relax. Katie Bell, the only remaining member of the original Gryffindor Quidditch team Harry had joined in first year, waved them over to her. "Congratulations on that," she said, pointing to the Quidditch Captain's badge Harry had pinned to the front of his robes. "Tell me when you call trials."

"Trials?" Harry said, blinking. "You don't need to try out, you're a great player—"

Katie shook her head, frowning. "Don't start off like that," she said. "There's always fresh blood, and it's best to go through all of the people who try out. There might be a second year who's as much of a genius at Chasing as you are at Seeking. And teams go wrong if you keep the old timers, or if you put friends on the team even though they aren't as skilled as some others…"

Ron was faintly red in the face, and looked rather uncomfortable, fiddling with a quill in his hands.

The free period passed quickly, too quickly for Harry and Ron. Reluctantly, they left the bright and sunny common room for the Defence Against the Dark Arts classroom four floors below. When they arrived, Hermione was already there, outside with some of the others, and was carrying an armful of heavy books. "I've got so much homework from Runes," she said, looking rather strained. "A fifteen inch essay, two translations, and reading by Wednesday! Would you believe it?"

"Shame," Ron said, not looking sympathetic at all. "But you shouldn't have taken so many classes."

"And dropped some?" Hermione said, sounding incredulous. "You expect me to do that?" The tone of her voice was positively murderous.

Harry and Ron looked at each other. Harry said, "No. We're not quite that optimistic."

"_Harry_!"

The others had congregated outside the door to the classroom during their short conversation, and were warily waiting for Snape to appear. The moment class was scheduled to begin, the door creaked wide open. Exchanging guarded glances with each other, the students entered the room.

Unlike the previous year, when Umbridge had imposed her sickly sweet (disgustingly so) personality upon the classroom, this year the room seemed completely bare. The windows were wide open, light streaming into the room, and the desks and chairs were arranged neatly. Other than that… Harry quickly scanned the room, but there was nothing else. The walls were bare, the whiteness of the walls extraordinarily stark.

There was no sign of Snape.

"I don't see Snape anywhere," Ron said quizzically, glancing around.

"And he takes points off of _us_ for being late," Harry muttered. The students were sitting down at the desks, and Harry, Ron, and Hermione chose desks somewhere in the middle, not particularly enamoured of sitting up front, especially considering the teacher… "Pot calling the kettle black."

"Your use of a trite saying is as unimaginative as always, Potter, and also wrongly applied, as I am right here," came Snape's cold, incisive voice out of nowhere. Ron yelped and turned his head to look around the room, as did many of the other students—but there was only the empty air. "And considering that none of you—_none_ of you—have realised where I am, it seems obvious to me that all of you are utterly lacking in Defence skills. How long would you last in a duel, I wonder?"

Hermione whispered, "He must have Disillusioned himself, I think—"

"Miss Granger, while I did indeed Disillusion myself, it does no good for you to know that _after_ I have _revealed_ myself by speaking." Snape's voice was dry and slightly sardonic.

Hermione turned a little pink. On the other side of the room, Malfoy sniggered.

The air at the teacher's desk suddenly seemed to ripple in waves, and Snape appeared, standing in front of it.

The students in the classroom stared. Snape had… _changed_. That was the only word. Changed. His skin was several shades browner, tanned and taut; his dark hair was cut short, ebony strands falling across his forehead; his black eyes glittered coldly, and the rays of sunlight cast strange shadows across his face, emphasising the sharp, ruthless planes of his cheekbones and the downward twisted corners of his mouth. Harry blinked. About the only wholly familiar thing he could see in Snape was his glare.

A few chairs away, Parvati Patil gasped loudly. "His _hair_," she whispered without any sign of embarrassment to Lavender Brown, who giggled.

Snape, on the other hand, did not seem at all perturbed by the students' stares. He gazed around the room. "I did not ask you to take out your books," he said curtly. Hermione hastily stowed away her copy of _Confronting the Faceless_. "I wish to speak to you, and I want your full attention."

The whole room was silent. Snape had that peculiar talent of being able to speak and make his voice heard, without anyone willing to interfere. And it was only enhanced by his appearance; no-one dared make any comment, although Harry grudgingly thought it was at least an improvement over Snape's former looks. "Now," he said, "you have had five teachers in this subject throughout your time at Hogwarts, I believe. Some of them, unfortunately, have been more incompetent than others—"

Next to Harry, Ron coughed "Lockhart!" at the same time Hermione muttered "Umbridge!" Harry thought of Quirrell. Then he thought, _Well, Snape probably means Lupin too. Hates to think that Lupin managed to get the job before he did_…

"Given the… lack of depth as such, I am surprised so many of you scraped an O.W.L. in the subject. I shall be even more surprised if all of you manage to keep up with the N.E.W.T. work, which will be much more advanced. So," he continued, standing stock still, "we shall begin immediately. All of you, I assume, are complete novices in the use of nonverbal spells. What is the advantage of a nonverbal spell?"—Hermione's hand shot up into the air—"And does _anyone_ know besides Miss Granger?"

But Hermione was still the only one with her hand up.

Snape looked somewhat annoyed. "Yes, Miss Granger?"

"Your adversary has no warning about what kind of magic you're about to perform, which gives you a split-second advantage." Hermione said it all rather fast.

"An answer," Snape said pointedly, "copied almost word for word from _The Standard Book of Spells, Grade Six_, showing lack in creativity, but correct in essentials." (Ron rolled his eyes.) "Those who have the ability to cast nonverbal spells gain an element of surprise in their spell-casting. Not all wizards can do this, of course." Snape paused, his eyes sweeping around the room. "It requires an intense concentration and mind power which some people lack." His voice was dry, almost clinical; but his gaze lingered upon Harry, who glared back, knowing that Snape must be thinking of their Occlumency lessons.

Snape stepped forward, drawing his wand. "Now," he said, "if I were to curse one of you in this class, I doubt you would know who, and when to prevent it." He turned towards the side, and flicked his wand; a row of round targets, concentric circles and all, came into existence. "Watch," Snape said, and Harry looked up, a little surprised; all of the venom he normally associated with Snape had faded away, and there was an intense concentration in Snape's face that Harry had never seen before.

No. Had seen once before. Harry suddenly remembered: _the centaurs gathering around them, their faces angry and hostile; Snape, his hand clenched into a fist, slowly moving; a wall of white fire, obscuring their sight, and Hermione gasping in horror and surprise and awe and saying, "Oh my god, what is he doing?" Then the flames dying down, and Snape looking at the centaur, and the centaur looking back at Snape, a strangely regretful look on Snape's face, a calmly resolute look on the centaur's_… _and what did they say to each other? What did they say_?

Harry was jerked from his reverie by the sudden smashing sounds he heard. Snape was pointing his wand at the targets, jets of light flying from the tip of his wand and smashing the targets to bits. It was fluid, his line of destruction never once stopping, and he had been silent the entire time.

The students were silent as well. "That," said Snape, and his voice was impossibly soft and low, the others straining to hear, "is the beauty of nonverbal spells." He turned to face them, his face once again set in his usual countenance of vague distaste. "Did you know I would use _Reducto_?" he asked. "Or perhaps another jinx? Or _Stupefy_? Your enemy, with luck, will not know what you mean to do, and that is what makes nonverbal spells necessary.

"You will now divide into pairs," he continued. "One partner will attempt to jinx the other without speaking. The other will attempt to repel the jinx in equal silence. Carry on."

Harry and Ron exchanged glances. It seemed as though this was going to be a long lesson.

**oOo**

Severus walked around the classroom, watching the students practise their nonverbal spells. Quite a lot of the students were cheating, much to Severus's irritation; they were merely whispering the incantation instead of actively trying to silently cast the spells. Of course, Severus assumed that they would not be doing such a thing if they knew that Severus would be taking points away from whatever respective House whenever he saw a denizen of said House whispering. Hermione Granger had been the only one so far who had managed to repel a jinx, that of Neville Longbottom (Jelly-Legs Jinx), and Severus grudgingly gave Gryffindor ten points in his mind. He would tell them at the end of class exactly how many points they had lost. It wasn't his fault so many Gryffindors happened to be in his N.E.W.T. Defence class, was it? And cheating as well? He rather thought it would be very entertaining to see the students' reactions.

It was not half so entertaining for Severus to look at their faces and remember their future fates. Of course, right after the… merge of his two minds, if he could call it that, he had utterly stifled his memories, his emotions, and was relieved that most of the classes were over, so as not to see the victims of the war, alive—and speaking—and walking—and breathing. But completely burying all that below his quicksilver Occlumency shields was not healthy for his mental state, he knew, and he had to deal with it. The summer had softened the sharp pangs of his memories of future-past (past-future? future of past present?); it had made the memories more… palatable (_not exactly_, thought Severus. _As though they could ever be palatable_.) to him. So he looked at the students, and watched their progress, and silently, inevitably, aloofly (or at least he tried to be distant in doing so) compartmentalised their fates.

There was Seamus Finnigan, who had defied his mother's wishes and returned to Hogwarts, only to go down like so many others during the attack on the castle—Yaxley, Severus remembered, had boasted of his tally, which included Finnigan's torture and death. There was Dean Thomas, who had cursed several Death Eaters and caused irreparable physical disabilities to them, before being felled by a Killing Curse in defence of his family—although, Severus had heard, his actions had not been in vain; his mother and siblings had escaped and faded, Severus assumed, into the Muggle world.

Hannah Abbott, who, after her mother's death (_this year_, Severus thought, _her mother was killed… will be killed, this year_), did not come to Hogwarts for her seventh year; but she stayed at Susan Bones's house, and when the Death Eaters came for them, the two Hufflepuffs together put up a savage fight, taking the wizards by surprise (_"Hufflepuffs are loyal; loyalty can be extraordinarily strong when wielded as a reason to fight." Dumbledore, smiling, talking, saying that to Severus; eyes twinkling brightly, looking pointedly at him_.). Parvati Patil and Padma Patil—the twins; nothing like the infamous Weasley twins in their closeness, mutually distant, often quarreling; and yet, despite all their irreconcilable differences, when Death Eaters stormed upon Diagon Alley, Parvati and Padma herded a group of young children into Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes, and, along with Fred and George Weasley, used the store's unusual supply stores to wreak havoc upon the Dark Lord's followers, disorienting and wounding many, all of them escaping through the Floo before closing it off from their attackers.

And yet theirs were the stories that blurred into the war. The real targets: Potter, Granger, Weasley … Severus glanced at the three children, who had been forced to grow up too soon, just like him…

… and frowned. Weasley's face was red with effort, his mouth firmly closed as to fight against the temptation of cheating and muttering an incantation quietly. Potter had a rather sceptical look on his face, as though to convey the thought that this was a waste of time.

_My dear children_, Hogwarts said almost proudly.

Well.

Severus strode over to them, and Weasley and Potter instantly turned to look at him, their faces a little alarmed. He recalled the impertinence with which Potter had responded in sixth year—the _other_ sixth year—(_and really, he shouldn't have answered that way_, Severus thought, irritated) and decided to take a different tack, as Potter obviously was paranoid. Constant vigilance and all that.

God, this was insane. Moody's words were beginning to _stick_.

"It seems clear to me," he began, his voice low, "that neither of you have any concentration whatsoever. You must focus upon that one incantation, think it in your mind, and prepare to force that spell out of your wand. So…" he cocked his head to one side, surveying the two sixth-years with a disdainful air. Potter looked defiant; Weasley, apprehensive. _Which one shall I choose_? Severus asked.

_Try Ron_, suggested Hogwarts. _I think Harry has had enough of mental concentration, especially after the Occlumency lessons_.

Severus was more scornful, and only scoffed. _I became a good enough Occlumens by the age of fifteen. If I could do it, then the Boy-Who-Lived, who _so_ miraculously defeated the Dark Lord, certainly can as well_.

_Well, he hasn't had the same experiences as you. You were in Slytherin, and you _were_ a very private person_…

_You're meaning to say that I'm more talented, of course_, Severus noted smugly.

_No, I'm meaning to say that you're absolutely insufferable_, retorted Hogwarts.

Severus mentally snickered, and turned his attention back to the Gryffindor sixth-years. "Weasley," he said, and was amused to see Weasley look even more uneasy, "you _do_ know the incantation for the Shield charm, right?" There was a certain emphasis in his words that seemed to imply that, no, Ronald Bilius Weasley did not (Molly Weasley herself was addled in the brains to saddle her son with such an odious middle name, Severus thought. Even _Hogwarts_ thought so.). It was the sort of tone that always fired up his students and made them work harder, if only to prove him wrong. In any case, if they did, he never publicly acknowledged it, as befitted his notorious reputation.

"Yes," Weasley gritted out between his clenched teeth.

"How very surprising, then," Severus replied, making sure to put just the right amount of unholy glee into his voice. "Shall we see how badly you do?" He drew up his wand in a sudden, graceful movement. _Flipendo_!

He felt the slightest of resistance against the spell as Weasley sought to block the nonverbal assault with a hastily cast mental _Protego_, but his efforts were in vain; the Gryffindor ignominiously flew back and crumpled to the ground in an awkward heap, gangly legs and arms flying.

Potter looked angry, but said nothing, hurrying over to Weasley. "Ow," Weasley moaned as Potter helped him to his feet. "That hurts."

"A most… _astute_ observation, Mr Weasley," Severus said noncommittally, sliding his wand back out of sight. "Five points from Gryffindor, as it seems that you have yet to understand exactly how you should be casting nonverbal spells. What a tragedy, I'm sure."

It was a rather hectic half hour later, during which Severus surveyed the room and snapped at his students about _concentration_, that the sixth-years finally left the room, still muttering under their breaths about the loss of points—from _all_ the Houses (and cautiously looking back to see that Severus did not overhear them; Severus decided, albeit reluctantly, to humour their perceptions, if only so they could leave as quickly as possible.). After the last student had nervously slipped through the door, Severus sat down on the top of his desk and rubbed his forehead, trying to ward off an impending headache. The only student who had managed a fully successful nonverbal spell had been Hermione Granger—Severus supposed that she had attained that feat partly because of the single-minded focus which she applied to most areas of her life, although that did not necessarily mean open-mindedness in Severus's view.

Even Draco had not done so well. The blond Slytherin had looked rather pale, his face wan; though at least he retained enough of his usual persona to laugh at Granger, Severus thought. It was odd that such a derisive gesture should be such a relief to his mind, but he still recalled the other sixth year (the "past" sixth year, which was odd, considering this was sixth year as well…), when Draco had withdrawn into himself over the course of the year, looking more and more haggard as the months passed by. That time, Severus knew that Draco had not been sleeping well; later, only a few hours after he had killed Albus, the two of them stood in a room at Castellum Serpens, Draco sobbing into his robes and saying, "_I couldn't do it, Professor, I couldn't—I'm—I'm glad you were there, the Dark Lord said he'd kill my parents, and Mother was all by herself at the manor—I kept thinking of how he'd kill her, but I still couldn't do it_—"

_Family creates reasons for people to become strange bedfellows_, he thought, head resting in his upturned hands, elbows on the desk. _I did as the Dark Lord bade me do because I was spying and his Death Eaters had killed my mother and I wanted to strike back against them; Draco did as the Dark Lord told him to do because he feared for his parents' lives. From different ends of the spectrum: a poor, self-sufficient half-blood and a rich, somewhat spoiled pureblood. But in the end, we fled together, and we made our choices partly because of family_.

_But he still lowered his wand, and I would not have done it—would not have killed Albus— if he had not asked, and demanded. And… perhaps that makes some small difference in us, that separates the other Death Eaters from Draco and me. It was partly because of family, but also… it was partly because of who we were. Who we _are.

It was an oddly comforting thought.

**oOo**

As soon as they had left the Potions classroom, Ron promptly said, "So, Hermione, do you know if you're going to use the Felix Felicis?"

Hermione, fighting to suppress a smile about to break across her face, said, "Well, no. But it _is_ nice to have it, isn't it?"

The striking golden potion splashed merrily in the vial as she retrieved it from her bag and held it up. There was again that bubbling feeling Hermione felt, as though the day couldn't be any better. Professor Slughorn seemed to like her, she had brewed the best potion in the class, and as a reward, she had received a vial of Felix Felicis, the potion of good luck (good luck! Wasn't that absolutely _auspicious_?)… She checked to make sure that the vial was secured with an Unbreakable charm, and then stowed it away.

On Hermione's other side, Harry brushed the messy fringes of his black hair out of his bright green eyes. "That lesson wasn't too bad, I suppose," he said. "Still…" he drew out his copy of _Advanced Potion-Making_ by Libatius Borage, once brand new; now its pages were somewhat more damp than before, sagging from the moisture present in the dungeons. "I didn't do too well. Did you see what mine _looked_ like?" There was a certain tone to his voice that very nearly sounded like amusement. "You could've mistaken it for burnt treacle pudding, I swear."

"And mine?" added Ron, raising an eyebrow. "Not even close. Anyhow, you deserve it, Hermione. Glad to see you can still beat Malfoy."

"When hasn't she?" Harry said, grinnng. "Well, then—hey, wait a moment, Hermione, where are you going?"

"To the library!" Hermione called back. "I want to do some research!"

"Research?" Ron yelled, a tinge of outrage in his voice. "On the first day of classes? Cor blimey, Hermione, you're wrong in the head!"

"Thanks for the compliment," Hermione said dryly, and turned around the corner, heading for the Hogwarts library.

The Hogwarts library: Hermione's favourite place to be. Throughout the first few months of her first year, when she had felt isolated and alienated from her Housemates, the library had been her refuge. Even now, with Harry and Ron her friends, the library was still a pleasant place to be; there would undoubtedly be a reference on what exactly the Felix Felicis potion _did_. And Hermione wanted to know; she always did.

She came to the entrance of the library and pushed open the door, careful to let the door close quietly behind her—or otherwise Madam Pince would have been upon her in an instant. Irma Pince did not mind Hermione, who was a regular visitor to the Hogwarts library, but she was nonetheless always savage towards anyone who caused so much as a second of a disturbance in her precious _sanctum sanctorum_ of written texts. She protected her books with the fierceness of a mother lion guarding her cubs, except that she didn't roar; she screeched.

Hermione started over to the magical book that Madam Pince had set next to her desk. It was a highly useful tool; one would write down a subject, or a title, or an author, and within minutes that person would be informed of where to find their desired manuscript. She picked up the elaborately peacock feathered quill that lay nearby—_Peacock feather_? she thought, _I never thought Madam Pince would be so extravagant_—and tapped the rectangle in which "subject" was written. She wrote on the blank paper in her neat, cursive handwriting, _Felix Felicis potion_.

Several seconds later, a short list of titles appeared on the smooth parchment. Hermione dug a sheet of crumpled parchment out of her own bookbag and laid it on top of the page. "_Transcribere_," she said, and watched as the titles, in spidery black words (the script looking much like that of Irma Pince), bled into existence onto her paper. Then, looking at the titles of the books, she went off to retrieve the texts. Heading directly to the potions section, she navigated her way amongst the bookshelves. "QP, two three nine, point F six, L five six, nineteen fifty-two…" she muttered to herself. "Ah, there it is!"

She plucked out Chance Luk's _Potion of Fortune and Luck_. A few aisles down, she found _Moste Valuable Potions (Difficilis Macian_), by Sceadu Memor. Carrying both books to her usual table, she sat down in a chair and opened _Moste Valuable Potions_, scanning its list of described potions.

_1. Felix Felicis_

_2. Rememorari_

_3. Veritaserum_

_4. Callahan's Brew_

Each potion alone seemed to take up a sizeable bulk of the book. She set it to one side and picked up _Potion of Fortune and Luck_. It was a slimly bound volume, a dark wine red colour with bronze lettering on the cover. She opened it to the table of contents. Quickly scanning down, she found "Chapter Five: Results of Taking Felix Felicis," and smiled.

_Of course, it is not recommended to take this particular potion for a long length of time; inevitably, the person being affected will begin to become giddy and lightheaded at random moments, often sounding somewhat scatterbrained_.

_That sounds like Dumbledore_, Hermione thought, and tried not to giggle at the at the sudden, random thought of the white haired wizard trying on a set of robes with little tropical fish swimming around his clothed arms.

_Despite its reputation, Felix Felicis is not truly a "good luck" potion so much as it is a potion which weighs the situation, according to one's mind, and prods you to take the best path. Since it is hard to brew—one caldron of Felix Felicis, as mentioned before in Chapter Three, needs a little less than two months to simmer—and the side effects appear after constant use, researchers are not quite sure if one may still encounter unlucky occurrences after imbibing the potion_.

Hermione frowned. "So it doesn't guarantee luck," she muttered to herself. "It just—shapes your choices depending on the situation. I suppose…" She drew her eyebrows together, and continued reading.

The two books were tucked away into her bookbag when she finally left the library. It was almost dinnertime before she went back to the Gryffindor common room, and then off to the Great Hall with her friends.

**oOo**

Some of the dialogue in this chapter is also from HBP (Ch. 9: The Half-Blood Prince). And since Harry already knew Slughorn was taking the Potions position and would let him into N.E.W.T. Potions, he and Ron both have new copies of the book, and therefore the moniker of the "Half-Blood Prince" has not yet been brought to their attention.

"_Transcribere_" is Latin for "transcribe." I based that series of numbers and letters (which Hermione was muttering to herself) relating to the books on the Library of Congress Classification, trying to stick to the structure, although I randomly chose numbers. In LC classification, Q is for science, so I picked that, then a "P" for potions. The next few letters and numbers are all random, until "L," which is used to signify an author's last name, and the "nineteen fifty-two" is for the year of publication.

The name Chance Luk… is there really any need to elaborate: ) "Sceadu" is Old English for "shade," while "memor" is Latin for "mindful." "Difficilis" is Latin for "difficult," literally "not easy," and "macian" is Old English for "make." "Rememorari" is late Latin for "remember." Callahan's Brew is a potion mentioned in Nomad1's Conspiracy of Silence series.

(looks pointedly at people with story on alert/favorites list who have not reviewed yet) Hope you enjoyed this chapter! The next one, I think, will be set at the Ministry and Azkaban. Please review!

Talriga


	15. Chapter 15

See Ch. 1 for disclaimer.

Apologies for the late update. I had AP testing... and then I hit a case of writer's block with the last scene. However, this chapter introduces another OC that I rather like. So, thanks to my reviewers, and read on. :)

**Chapter 15**

The Ministry lunchroom was clean—painfully so. The walls were stark white, the tables a gleaming black marble. An astonishing amount of money had been spent on the lunchroom, thought Percy, all for the supposed purpose of making employees comfortable while they ate lunch.

It was still doubtful to Percy if they had succeeded in their purpose.

The sterile air, oddly enough, smelled of lemon juice (Percy wondered where that factored into the equation) and the almost sickening scent of some powerful disinfectant. Odours were practically absent from the large canteen, as some Ministry workers called it. Percy did not usually eat in the canteen—he considered the food served there sadly lacking in taste and flavour, not at all suitable to his palate. However, he knew that most workers, especially the gossipy ones, stayed to eat at the Ministry. And gossip, while annoying in itself, occasionally contained a kernel of truth.

He wrinkled his nose in distaste as he grabbed a lunch tray from the stack at the beginning of the line, sharp brown eyes picking out a small spot of grease that had been left unwashed. He pulled out his wand and discreetly gave it a little jab of _Scourgify_. A few floridly pink soap bubbles trickled out of the end of his wand and raced over the spot of grease. As he made the soap bubbles vanish, he noted with approval the now gleaming lunch tray.

"You there," said the person standing behind him. "Move it!"

"Sorry," said Percy, although his voice sounded as though he weren't sorry at all. He pushed his tray under the serving tools of the first canteen worker, who dumped a slice of sad-looking roast beef on his tray, looking extremely bored with the whole process. Percy continued down the line, receiving a spoonful of mashed potatoes, a small tin bowl of rather watery vegetable soup, and a plate heaped with salad. He wondered how old the lettuce might be, then decided it was better not to think of all the possible things that could have happened to spoil or contaminate the food. _I suppose it's best to just shovel it down with my eyes closed_, thought Percy in resignation. He poked at his just received muffin and inwardly despaired at how depressingly _hard_ it seemed to be. _Mum's cooking was so much better than this. I wish I could be back at the Burrow_. Of course, family issues kept him from doing exactly that, and sitting down to a huge, traditional English lunch, as Mum passed around his favourite dish, her own homemade, absolutely mouth watering concoction of Yorkshire pudding…

_Stop it, stop it, stop it! You do_ not _need to be thinking about Mum's food right now_. Only it was late October, and Halloween was coming up soon, and he could not help but think of the sumptuous Hogwarts feasts with fondness.

He passed over tea for coffee—it would keep him alert, despite its nasty taste (how the Yanks could take it he didn't have a clue)—and gave his card to the person waiting to ring up lunches. The squat man tapped the card with his wand, checked the ribbon which unfurled in the air in front of him, nodded in approval, and handed it back to Percy. "Fourteen Galleons, ten Sickles, and three Knuts left," the man said, and turned to the next person in line.

Percy carried his lunch tray away, and surveyed the lunchroom critically. He spotted an interesting prospect: a group of talking Aurors, sitting in the far left corner of the lunchroom. There was an empty table right next to them. Percy adopted the appearance of looking hesitant and unsure, and zigzagged his way to the table, just as conveniently choosing to come to the spot closest to the Aurors, and took his seat.

He unobtrusively slid the tip of his wand out of his robes, and manoeuvred it to point toward the Aurors' table, casting an eavesdropping charm. At once, the Aurors' conversation became much clearer—and they hadn't noticed a thing. Percy remembered Snape sneering at the Aurors and complaining about how their standards were going downhill. He was beginning to think Snape was right. After all, Percy wasn't even trained, and here he was, having managed to situate himself right next to the Aurors and eavesdrop without them noticing. Honestly, the state of the government these days…

They all seemed to be younger Aurors—novices—the ones that hadn't fought during the war with Voldemort so many years ago (Then again, most of the current Aurors were; most of the former Aurors from the first war had not survived.). One of them, a good-looking man, his brown hair casually pulled back in a ponytail, plucked at a stray thread of his horribly flashy red robes and said, "Hey, you hear we've got to guard Azkaban now for an entire year?"

"What d'you mean?" mumbled another Auror through a crunchy biscuit. He wiped at his mouth, and crumbs fell onto the table. Grimacing, the Auror—a placid, broad-faced man—cast a spell that quickly cleansed the sleeves of his robes.

"Guard," said the Auror in red robes. "The entire year. Auror Morgenstern told me."

"You mean Dagny the Dagger?"

"Yeah."

There was a collective groan rising from the small group of four. "Oh, Jack, what a tragedy," said another Auror (Percy sensed a touch of sarcasm.). His face was very pale and he never smiled. Instead, he always frowned. "Isn't Scrimgeour just a little paranoid?"

"Not as bad as Mad-Eye," said the last one derisively. " 'Constant vigilance!'" he mock-shouted, mimicking Moody's voice. They snorted into their glasses of pumpkin juice.

Percy sipped slowly at his coffee, his face looking rather bored. Inside, however, he was not amused. Moody might be paranoid, but he certainly had the right idea in these times. What were the Aurors thinking, trying to dismiss the veteran fighter who was famous (infamous?) for capturing all those Death Eaters so long ago? Constant vigilance (of the sensible variety) was a perfectly good idea by which to live, provided you didn't possess Moody's almost ridiculous paranoia as well.

The pale-faced man continued, "I've been there several months already, and I don't want to spend any more time there than necessary. And we're told to go there so… arbitrarily. Why do we have to go there? Why not Hogwarts? And why have they finally _assigned_ us there so _late_?"

"Says there aren't enough Aurors," said the other in red robes. "Haven't been any through the training program for a while. And Hogwarts already got its detail, so most of us are stuck with Azkaban or the Ministry. So maybe not all of us have to go. And Robards was arguing with Scrimgeour, so that's what delayed a fully assigned group of Aurors there. I hear that's why they've just been picking Aurors at random to stand guard for now. But we can all blame the shortage on _Fudge_."

_Amen to that_, Percy thought.

The one who had mimicked Moody looked up from his pumpkin juice after a pause, during which they had all taken the time to eat their food. "Hey, Jack, how's your luck with Tonks?" he said casually to the red-robed man.

Percy thought quickly. Tonks… yes, Nymphadora Tonks. The Auror who was a Metamorphmagus and a disowned scion of the Black family. And a member of the Order of the Phoenix. Percy knew of her vaguely. _Yeah_, he groused to himself, _this really_ is _a waste of my time. I'm not about to spend an entire lunchtime listening to the smutty lives of the Aurors_.

Unfortunately, Percy couldn't exactly communicate his thoughts to the Aurors, so he sighed in exasperation to himself and pulled out a sheet of parchment, scribbling his afternoon schedule on it. In actuality, he already knew what he was going to do that afternoon, and writing down his schedule was only something he decided to do while he waited for the Aurors to say _something_ even remotely interesting.

Merlin, this spying business was getting boring.

Jack Williamson's attempts to chat up Nymphadora Tonks were most certainly not helpful. Feeling very irritated, Percy made a note to himself that sometime after this was all over, he would demand compensation, monetary and otherwise, from the MLE for subjecting him to cruel and unusual punishment.

"—Merlin, she's good looking when she wants to be. So I'm like, hey, Tonks, could you try changing your hair to blonde? You know she's got that pink thing right now. So she looks at me all funny and says, all right. And then I say to her, that's great. Could you change your eye colour to blue? I mean, really, the purple just doesn't match all that well."

_Oh Merlin, yes, this is definitely very much cruel and unusual punishment. Does it matter if they do it unknowingly?_

_No, I should think not_.

"Uh huh, Jack," said the mimicker. The pale-faced man rolled his eyes, looking annoyed with the whole situation. The man who had been munching on the biscuit said jovially, "Well, don't you think that a little obvious…?"

Williamson looked highly offended. "No!"

Biscuit-man looked just as highly sceptical, but shrugged and said, "Go on." He bit into another biscuit and chewed loudly, his mouth open. Percy did not want to see the spectacle of crushed biscuit mixed with saliva (_manners_! thought Percy stiffly), and inconspicuously averted his eyes to Williamson, whose story was steadily growing more amusing.

"And she looked like a goddess—like Aphrodite, in that painting by Botticelli, except she still had her clothes on—" Percy suppressed a frown of distaste at that moment. He had always been a proper Weasley boy as his mother had wanted him to be, and had never thought lewd thoughts quite as lascivious as Williamson's. "So I look at her, and I say, Tonks, you're really looking good—"

"Don't you usually say that to yourself, Williamson?" murmured Pale-face under his breath. The others evidently had not heard, because Williamson inexorably continued. "—and I say, you want to eat with me tonight? I know a great French place, and then we can go to my apartment for a while."

"I wonder why?" said Mimicker, wagging his eyebrows up and down.

Williamson was shameless. "And she stares at me and says, what? So I say, you want to come out with me to eat? And I've got a great place, you can come look. I mean, she'd like that, wouldn't she?" Here, Williamson appealed to his friends. Mimicker snorted, Biscuit-man took another bite out of his biscuit and absent-mindedly said, "Yes, yes," while Pale-face rolled his eyes again and said, "Oh, yes, I'm sure."

All Percy could think was that this was a total waste of time.

"But she didn't! I don't know why, she marches right up to me an' says, you goddamn idiot, and stomps on my foot." Williamson paused; the pain in his voice intensified. "It still hurts, man! I don't get it—I mean, I'm handsome, smart, talented—"

"Extremely egotistical," muttered Pale-face, and Percy wondered if Pale-face had been unfortunately roped into the small group by chance. Certainly, he looked very annoyed with the entire situation. Of course, Percy could not agree more with a well-said statement. He scraped the bottom of his tin bowl of vegetable soup, and looked mournfully at the only food he had left: the bits of carrots in the soup that he had abandoned because they were hard and crunchy. Percy was quite sure that carrots in soup were supposed to be soft. These idiotic Ministry cooks…

The Aurors had switched from the topic of their romantic lives to their actual jobs, and were comparing their assignments. From what Percy heard of the conversation, Williamson was conducting surveillance on known Death Eater families (in his case, it was the Malfoys), Biscuit-man was participating in raids, Mimicker was relegated to deskwork and writing up reports (Percy wondered why—probably insubordination), and Pale-face had been assigned to guard Azkaban for some time since the Dementors' desertion. _No wonder he's so grumpy_, Percy thought. _The Dementors may be gone, but Azkaban's still as gloomy as they get_.

He prodded the carrots in the tin bowl with his fork.

Pale-face was saying, "My God, Azkaban's a right ruddy place. I'm in the outer rings of the prison, so I don't have the Death Eaters to guard, but still… You-Know-Who could attack any day, Warden Roth is a coward… Roder, you've got the best of it. Sitting pretty at your desk—"

Mimicker, or Roder, bristled. "What're you trying to say by that, Bleme?"

Pale-face, or Bleme, bristled back. "You're a lucky bastard, that's what."

_And all you lucky bastards are being annoying_, Percy thought with annoyance. Coming to the conclusion that as younger Aurors they wouldn't know so much about… anything in particular, he got to his feet. He deposited the trash in the rubbish bin and his lunch tray on top of the stack of dirty trays, which teetered dangerously, looking as though it was on the verge of collapse. Then he quickly made off for his office. He had a lot of papers to go through, after all.

**oOo**

Even after the Dementors had left—deserted—Azkaban, the feared wizarding prison still retained about it a sense of frigidness, of barely suppressed fear, of a dark, black _feeling_ that pressed down upon them as though it would like to drown them all in despair. Beckett thought of his little sister Alix. The Dementors had left, true, but their imprint had lingered.

The prow of the boat nudged gently into the dock, coming up next to the pier. The wood seemed as though it were rotten to the core, as though the flimsy support would collapse at any moment. Nearby, another boat occupied by Aurors was bobbing, the wind-churned waters whipping at its moorings, and the Aurors quickly got off the boat. Beckett gripped the edges and jumped over the side onto the dock; he was the last one in the boat to do so. The others were standing around; they were waiting for the prison warden to come down and open the padlocked gates.

Beckett glanced around at his new companions. He still could not quite figure out why Scrimgeour had ordered the old Auror squads scrambled up; there was no rational line of reasoning that he could see in the action. But now, the closely knit teams of Aurors had been taken apart and put back together haphazardly, against Gawain Robards's protests. He knew two of them, at least. Owen Zanar, who was gazing up at the ominous looking structure, seemed pensive, biting down on his lower lip and his frame tense. Jacqueline Asterbury, whose short, light brown hair was mussed by the wind. She saw Beckett looking at her, and gave him a strained smile.

Beckett had heard of the other two, but he wasn't very well acquainted with them. They were both considered veterans among the Aurors. Henry Wyatt, the squad leader, was an extraordinarily fit man in his mid-forties, one of the older Aurors in the department. He had a jaunty personality, although now even he seemed more sober than usual. The other… Dagny Morgenstern had a bit of a reputation among the Aurors. Behind her back (although Beckett was sure that she knew it, anyway; there was not much that she ever missed), they called her Dagny the Dagger. She had a certain mantra: when wands were not available, use knives. They were never quite sure _where_ she hid them, but they knew that she could quickly draw them in a fight, if need be. She was nearly Henry Wyatt's opposite in personality; in her late thirties, she was a taciturn, reserved person, a woman of few words.

"It's so _dreary_ here," someone said behind him. Beckett blinked and turned around. Jacqueline Asterbury came up next to him, her Auror robes drawn closely around her.

Beckett nearly smiled. "Understatement of the year."

"Understatement of the century," said Owen gloomily. The three of them glanced over at Wyatt and Morgenstern, who were conversing with each other in low, serious tones. "And we're going to be here for a long, long time."

There was a moment of suspended silence. It was broken by a sudden outburst of laughter; several feet away, Fitzwilliam McKay was making jokes. The other Aurors looked amused, but then—Beckett listened more closely and heard the undercurrent of nervousness and fear in the jocularity.

_Azkaban_, he thought. _The place where there is no joy. Admission price: your happiness. Priceless_.

At that moment, the gates creaked open, just enough for the Aurors to come in. This was probably the only time they would actually go through the gate; the purpose of going by boat was so that the Aurors who had not been to Azkaban before (after all, the _Dementors_ had been here, so few Aurors had been actually there as guards) could familiarise themselves with the prison from the outside. Their usual mode of transportation would be by Portkey. A thin, balding man dressed in ashen grey robes shut the gate behind them. "Aurors," he said in a surprisingly low voice, rather at odds with his appearance, "I am Gatekeeper Maurice Boynton. Warden Roth is waiting for you."

And the Aurors went.

**oOo**

Of all the shifts that their squad could have drawn, it _would_ have to be the night shift, in the high-security level of Azkaban prison itself. Seven in the evening to seven in the morning.

Dagny Morgenstern drew her cloak around her, trying to shield herself from the pervasive cold that seemed to seep into every bit of her being. She stood outside the door which was the entrance into the high-security area. As she turned her head back to look behind her, she saw Henry Wyatt tap his wand to the torches lining the walls. Flames sprang to life, lighting up the corridor. It was almost worse that way, Dagny thought; there were more menacing shadows dancing around them.

The prison had an odd structure; circular rings spread out from one centre, forming concentric bands. The outer rings held the low-security prisoners, the petty thieves and such; as one went deeper into Azkaban, the cells were more likely to be filled with those who had committed worse, more severe crimes; they were murderers, rogue Dark wizards. The very inner ring had an odd shape; instead of actually following the circumference of a circle, thick walls of stone separated the would-be circular ring into two semi-circles, curling around the centre, with two small corridors intersecting at the middle of the circle before leading out into the outer rings.

Of all the shifts that their squad could have drawn, it _would_ have to be the night shift, in the high-security level of Azkaban prison itself. And of all the shifts that their squad could have drawn, it _would_ have to be the section of the high-security level that housed the captured Death Eaters. Dagny did not like it.

"Is everyone here?" asked Wyatt sternly. Dagny's eyes flicked around the corridor. The others were… yes, they were here, all of them. Five of them, for Section A; another team of five Aurors, on the other side, in the other semi-circular ring that was called Section B. She nodded, and stepped to one side. "Everyone in the squad, place your hand here"—she indicated a smoothed slab of stone that was resting on a wooden pedestal next to her—"and wait for the wards to recognise your magical signature." She put her left hand on the slab. A faint blue light sprang up around her hand, and Dagny watched silently as it spiralled up her arm and then around her body. Then it briefly flashed a shimmering silver, and then faded away into transient sparkles around her.

"Is that one of those recognition devices?" Owen Zanar said. "To only allow access to us? Just clarifying," he added quickly. Dagny was the kind of person who disliked superfluous words.

"Yes," said Dagny.

Wyatt continued, "It links into wards based on runes. First of all, you have to be voluntarily allowed into this specific area by the warden himself," and he shot a vaguely disgusted look at the end of the corridor, where they had last caught a glimpse of the portly Warden Roth; Roth, his face somewhat pale, had hastily directed them there himself before leaving the group to their own work, still trembling slightly. "Then, when you place your hand on the slab, it automatically scans your magical signature and matches it up with the Auror records to check and confirm everything. After that, you can pass in and out without much trouble."

"That sounds interesting," said Beckett Sumner without much enthusiasm.

In fact, none of them looked very enthusiastic.

Dagny wondered how in the world Rufus Scrimgeour hoped to accomplish anything this way. Kingsley Shacklebolt, before being sent off to his post in the Muggle Prime Minister's office, had in a rather disgruntled way told her about how he had been called to Scrimgeour's office, and rather than listening to Shacklebolt, the Minister had spent the better part of an hour talking about his own plans. Rufus Scrimgeour had once been a good Auror. But he had not been an Auror in the field for a while, and Dagny sometimes felt that it was because of his lack of connection with them now that his policies grated against the Aurors' own preferences. _She_ would have preferred to remove the criminals to somewhere unknown, not a place as well publicised as Azkaban. Not to mention the fact that there had already been two breakouts from the prison within the past few years.

There were only six occupants of Section A, separated from each other by empty cells between them (Azkaban's maximum high-security level was not to full capacity; it had been fully devoted to the imprisonment of the Death Eaters.). Five other Death Eaters were incarcerated in Section B; and all together, they added up to the eleven Death Eaters caught at the Ministry. Malfoy, Dolohov, Rodolphus Lestrange, Macnair, Rookwood, and Mulciber. (Dagny didn't think the poor sods thrown in Section B counted as Death Eaters.)

Zanar cleared his throat nervously. "Will we be in there all the time?" he asked.

Wyatt shook his head. "No. Not all the time," he said. "Did you notice that door off to the right? That's where we'll be staying, usually. Robards said there's a magical watching device we can use to make sure they don't get up to anything in there. But we'll have to physically check the cells every half hour, and watch the wards and such. And someone has to stand guard at the door—we'll be swapping every now and then over the course of the night." He motioned to the door on the right, and they went in.

Dagny's first impression of the cramped room was that the layers of dust on the furniture—crooked table, chairs with splayed legs, untidy bookshelves—must be several inches thick. Her second impression was that the room must have not been used for some time. Her third impression was, _Auror squad turned housecleaning detail. How… fun_.

Dagny walked over to the only thing that seemed clean in the musty room: a large, silvery mirror that reached from the ceiling to the floor, framed in simple bronze and wood. Its surface was smoothed glass, which felt cool to her touch. "I recognise this," she said almost absent mindedly. "A Burleigh classic surveillance from 1956, I believe."

"_1956_?" asked Sumner, looking astonished. "That sounds ridiculously outdated! Especially if we're to use it—"

Wyatt coughed. "The 1956 Burleigh is actually better than most nowadays," he said curtly. "_I'm_ surprised the department didn't appropriate it earlier to be used elsewhere."

Zanar waved his hands vaguely and said, "Yes, well, bureaucracy's like that. All that paperwork."

Wyatt gave a meaningful cough. "_Anyway_," he said pointedly, "the activation phrase…" He pointed his wand at the mirror. "_Seon elles hwaer, Azkaban prison Section A cells_."

The smooth, reflective surface of the mirror rippled like the waters of an ocean suddenly disturbed by the wind. A series of undulations swelled up and spread outward, distorting the surface and creating odd shapes in the mirror. As the mirror's surface faded back to its former serenity, a picture of the Section A corridor and cells took form within its depths, colours and blurs coalescing into a fully formed picture. The other Aurors came up to look more closely at the tableau which unfolded before their eyes; it was rather like looking down upon the prisoners from a bird's eye view.

Dagny examined the scenario with a critical eye. Section A was not very crowded; the six Death Eaters in their cells were separated from each other not only by the cell walls, but by more cells in between. There were numerous wards around the cells, so as to prevent them communicating with each other and such.

"Look, at least we finally got Macnair," Wyatt said, jabbing a finger at a figure in a cell. Walden Macnair sat in the left back corner, slumped against the wall and gazing—or rather, Dagny thought he was glaring—at nothing in particular. "Knew that Imperius defence was a hoax."

Macnair suddenly stood up and savagely punched the wall with his bare right fist in a fit of anger. He stumbled back, clutching at his bleeding hand. Dagny wasn't surprised; Walden Macnair was addicted to violence, self-inflicted though it might be. "That's got to hurt," said Jacqueline Asterbury, her voice sounding sympathetic—but her blue eyes did not so much as flicker at Macnair's actions and subsequent injuries. "Not very smart of him."

Zanar said, "Well, of course the Imperius defence could be seen as flimsy. There—you see Lucius Malfoy?" He jerked her head toward a blond man who was standing in another cell. Dagny wondered why he did not sit. Then she realised that Malfoy was the type of person who felt that standing was more intimidating than sitting. "He and—well, I'll bet most of the subordinates in _his_ particular Death Eater cell all used the same defence. Suspicious, of course, but it worked. They all got off scot free, and none of his subordinates could betray him. Quick on the uptake, eh?"

Dagny straightened and walked over to one of the chairs, clearing the dust with a flick of her wand. "I thought it was foolish of him to lead that expedition into the Ministry," she said, leaning down to adjust the legs of the chair. "Not particularly…" she paused, casting about for the right description, and, oddly enough, thought of an old memory, a very old memory. "Not very Slytherin." Her lips twitched ever so slightly, but whether in amusement or bitter remembrance, or both, she could not be sure.

Henry Wyatt raised an eyebrow at that, but he said, "Well, we'd better organise our turns to guard the door. Who wants to go first…?"

"I will," said Dagny. "Call me back when my turn's over."

"Sure, Morgenstern."

Dagny stepped out of the room and closed the door behind her, and the rustling of her colleagues' robes in the room (as they began cleaning it up) was abruptly silenced. She stood in the cold corridor, leaning against the wall, watching the torches flicker in the darkness. The atmosphere was utterly still, and if Dagny didn't move and slowed her breathing, she could hear the far off _pitter patter_ of dripping water upon the stones.

_Not particularly… Not very Slytherin_. The words in her mind seemed to echo in the corridor, although she had not said it aloud there. It seemed to grow and expand to great proportions; it weighed upon her, stifling her movement.

"_You're not very Slytherin, are you?" Cold grey eyes. She was sitting in one of the chairs, and she suppressed the urge to stiffen and go for her wand. It wouldn't have helped, anyway, since she didn't know much in the way of hexes. She was a first-year, just two days in Slytherin, and they already called her dirty because her parents were both Muggle-born (Mudbloods), and he was seventh-year and arrogantly pureblood. As though blood spoke for everything, she thought._

_The common room seemed to quiet down, and a strange hush fell upon the students. There was still conversation, but to Dagny it seemed strangely muted._

_He came into view, the fiery flames from the fireplace glinting off his long blond hair. "Did you hear me?" Impatience in his voice now._

_She weighed the pros and cons. Decided to go for a cunning retort, because cowering would make them feel nothing but disdain for her, and crude manoeuvers solved nothing, especially when applied ineffectively, and would make them contemptuous of her, and the consequences would be the same. Outright defiance, on the other hand… So she decided and thought, _Words are everything_. She said, archly, "I heard you, perhaps, but it doesn't mean I have to reply."_

_Lucius Malfoy cocked his head to one side and gave her an assessing look. "Not so bad after all," he murmured. "Somewhat… impertinent, though," and he said it as though it were a diagnosis for cancer. "You'd do well to remember where your place is." There was no distasteful expression on his face; his voice said everything he wanted her to hear._

_He glided away, and the common room suddenly seemed just as it had been a moment ago. Had it been reality or her imagination? Two fifth-years played wizarding chess against each other, and in the corner a third-year glanced at her and then looked away, quill scratching on parchment (an essay, perhaps?)._

_Not very Slytherin, he said_.

And yet she had been put in Slytherin. If not for what she had learned there, she might not have made it in the Aurors, especially during the first war—not at a time when Aurors more often died than survived.

Then again, she could've died while at school.

_The dark-haired boy smiled without mirth. His eyes were not at all amused. "You're lucky, you know, that I had the antidote for a common adder's poison," he said. "Do you know who might have set it on you?"_

_Dagny looked at him, her face dry and her coolness somewhat lost. She recalled seeing Lucius Malfoy in the Hogwarts corridors, along with Bellatrix Black, to visit his betrothed, seventh-year Narcissa. Recalled seeing him glance around and meet her eyes and give her a cold, sharp smile._

_There was no evidence. But._

_Yes, she knew._

"_No, I don't," she said. She was a second-year; she was twelve; and she was not stupid. An accusation would lead to an investigation and, undoubtedly, considering Malfoy's influence (honest or dishonest), an exoneration, and the House would be more resentful of her than ever for it._

_Slytherins. Snakes._

_Yet even then she felt a slight trembling in her body, still shivering from the attack, and remembered the sudden pain in her leg and the small writhing adder that had so savagely bitten her._

_The boy with the antidote narrowed his eyes, and gave her a piercing look. "Are you afraid?" he asked, and his voice held all the scorn in the world. Strangely enough, he sounded almost angry._

_Dagny wondered if he knew who had done it as well._

_She shook her head. "No, I'm not," she said_.

Yes, I am.

_Pitter patter_ went the dripping water, on the cold stones of Azkaban.

**oOo**

Percy was working through a load of papers describing books confiscated from the captured Death Eaters' homes. He stopped, and read the report on a book from the Crabbe family library again. And again. Then he took out a notebook from his pocket and flipped it open, looking back and forth between the report and the notebook.

He pressed his lips tightly together and took out his wand, putting up a quick _Muffliato_ (handy spell, wherever Snape had got it). "_Expecto Patronum_," he said quietly, and a silver mole shot out of his wand onto his desk, where it turned around to look at him, nose twitching in the air. Percy smiled and leaned forward. "_Cominitiare Missus_," he said clearly. "I have something that you might find of interest, sir. _Ende_."

The silver mole shuffled its forepaws, and looked up.

Percy blinked. "Oh. Yes. Sorry, I forgot that part. _Sendan Recipient_, Snape."

As his Patronus quickly scurried off, Percy sat back in his chair and looked at the pile of papers in front of him with an expression that seemed to say the papers—detailing investigations and raids and a ridiculous amount of reports he had to sift through before summarising them and then giving those to Minister Scrimgeour—were almost beginning to become his _bête noire_, to his own surprise.

At least the caldron bottoms under Barty Crouch hadn't required so much paperwork. And created so many headaches.

**oOo**

"_A Burleigh classic surveillance from 1956_…" Burleigh is a reference to Burleigh and Stronginthearm's, an arms shop in Terry Pratchett's Discworld series. (And which is _hilarious_.)

"_Seon elles hwaer_" is Old English cobbled together for "see elsewhere."

JKR has always been somewhat ambiguous on the years in the HP universe. She herself has admitted that she isn't the best at maths. So when, according to the Black family tapestry released earlier in 2006, Bellatrix Black was born in '51… well, the only way Severus Snape could have been part of the "gang of Slytherins" Sirius Black mentions in GoF (which included the married Lestranges) is if he and the Marauders were born in 1957 to '58 instead of '60, as the HP Lexicon used to claim; Bellatrix being born late in 1951, and thus one of the older ones in her year (much like Hermione with her September birthday). Thus, he would be a first-year while Bellatrix Black would be a 7th year. Snape's year would have started Hogwarts in the autumn of '69 and finished with the class of '76. Lucius Malfoy would be a 5th year when Snape started Hogwarts. I have placed Dagny Morgenstern two years below Snape, so, during the year in which her first memory took place, Snape was in 3rd year while Malfoy was in 7th year. I do not know of anything in the books that contradicts this reading (yet).

"_Cominitiare_" is vulgar Latin for "commence," and "_missus_" is rough Latin relating to "message." "_Ende_" is Old English for "end," and "_Sendan_" is Old English for "send."

"_Bête noire_" is French, a literary term for "pet hate." There's only so much you can take of paperwork, day after day. Or so I imagine. :) And did anyone catch the pun on Percy's Patronus?

Once again, sorry for the wait. Please review!

Talriga


	16. Chapter 16

See Ch. 1 for disclaimer.

So very, very sorry for the late update. But anyway, hope you enjoy.

**Chapter 16**

The month of September and the first part of October passed in a curiously quick blur, of classes and nonverbal spells and Quidditch tryouts. The academic tedium was regularly punctuated by Harry's lessons with Dumbledore, but Harry sometimes half-wished that Dumbledore could just tell him everything. Merope Gaunt and Tom Riddle's unfortunate story was a depressing one, true, but exactly _how_ would it help him defeat Voldemort? For that matter, Harry often came away from the lessons with his forehead aching; the Occlumency lessons, to his dismay, were conducted the same way by Dumbledore just as Snape had done.

"Isn't there an easier way to learn Occlumency?" he had complained one time, rubbing at his scar.

Dumbledore gave him a look and shook his head. "No, Harry," he said. "I'm afraid not. Occlumency can only be acquired through practice, Harry, and it _must_ be confrontational. After all, Legilimency is an attack on the mind. The more forceful the attack, the more it forces you to defend against it. You must recognise that the voice in your mind isn't your own, and turn against it. When you know you're under attack—then you can defend. Now, clear your mind again, Harry. Your mind must stay clear of any strong emotion, or otherwise the attacker can use that emotion against you. For that matter," he sighed, "I should not have had Professor Snape teach you—you two are not on the best of terms."

"Damn right," Harry muttered.

Dumbledore seemed to have been mysteriously afflicted with selective hearing. He continued, gently, "Even now, you only know that your mind is under attack because I am speaking the spell out loud. But you must train yourself so that you can guard against any outside influence and force it out immediately." His blue eyes twinkled as he raised his wand. "Now," he said mildly, "try again. _Legilimens_."

_I suppose it's a little better_, thought Harry, on a Saturday in October. _Voldemort's stopped trying to pry into my mind, at any case. But then again, maybe that means he's got other things that he's plotting right now_. He shuffled his feet impatiently as the Hogwarts caretaker Argus Filch waved a long, thin Secrecy Sensor around him. And again. And again.

"What does it matter if we're smuggling Dark stuff _out_?" muttered Ron behind Harry, as Filch performed the same procedure on him. "Shouldn't they be checking what we bring _in_? … Ow!"

Due to some supposedly misplaced jabs by Filch with the Secrecy Sensor, Ron was unhappily rubbing his arm a few minutes later as he joined Harry and Hermione on the road to Hogsmeade. It was their first trip of the term, and Harry had been pleased to find out that they were allowed to go, despite the stringent security measures, the fear of the Death Eaters, and the spectre of the Hogsmeade attack that summer.

Unfortunately, the weather was not as lenient. Harry winced and wrapped his red and gold Gryffindor scarf over his lower face; the wind whipped against them with a searing intensity, and the exposed part of his skin felt raw and numb with cold. Ron and Hermione fared no better. By the time they reached Hogsmeade, Ron's face was red from the wind's friction against his skin—which did not go well with his flaming red hair—and Hermione had steadily pulled up her scarf over her face until all that could be seen of her countenance were her brown eyes, the rest obscured by scarf and hat. Harry was beginning to regret coming to Hogsmeade in such weather, feelings only compounded by the sight of a closed Zonko's Joke Shop (boarded up, forlorn, and looking utterly deserted), and so they turned toward another interesting and close refuge: Honeydukes. When they stumbled into the crowded shop, toffee-scented air embraced them warmly, and none of them objected.

"Let's stay here all afternoon," said Ron fervently. "Merlin, it's so warm—"

"Harry, m'boy!"

Harry closed his eyes and suppressed a groan. "Oh no," he muttered under his breath. Professor Slughorn had been constantly inviting him to his "parties," and Harry had just as constantly been scheduling Quidditch practices which just _coincidentally_ happened to take place at the same time. Hermione, who had not had any excuses, turned around and pasted a smile onto her face. "Hello, Professor Slughorn," she said. "What's that you've got?"

"Crystallized pineapple, Miss Granger," Slughorn replied. "My favourite treat." He looked over at Harry, without so much as a glance at Ron. "You've been missing all of my little suppers, but you really must come some time—" He tugged at the fur collar of his thick overcoat.

"I suppose so," Harry said uncertainly. He gave Ron a discreet glance which went unnoticed by Slughorn. _Help me_!

Ron looked almost sympathetic, but his eyes said, _Sorry, mate. Mum taught us a lot, but she never taught us how to distract a person like Slughorn_.

"—So how about Monday night, you can't possibly plan on practising Quidditch in _this_ weather—"

"I'm afraid I can't, Professor," Harry said, trying to sound apologetic and suppress his relief at the same time. "I've got an—an appointment with Professor Dumbledore that evening."

"Unlucky again!" Slughorn said theatrically. "But I'll make sure you come soon, Harry, you can't avoid me forever!" With a wave, he waddled out of Honeydukes.

"_Lucky_ once again," Harry murmured pointedly.

Hermione sighed and shook her head. "I can't believe you managed to get out of _another_ one!" she said. "Having to listen to Blaise Zabini go on and on about his mother, and Cormac McLaggen's an idiot as well—you know he's still annoyed about you getting the Keeper position," she said to Ron. "But at least he got one-upped that time!" There was a look on her face which Harry could've sworn was almost a smirk.

Harry recalled the slightly dazed look on McLaggen's face. He'd had his suspicions, and when he'd asked Hermione…

"_McLaggen _did_ look like he was _Confunded_, though_."

"_All _right_, I did it. Not because Ron's our friend, but because McLaggen is an utter _prat_. You should have heard the way he was insulting Ron and Ginny! And saying how he was better than everyone else. You wouldn't have wanted someone on the team like that—he's absolutely _nasty."

"_Still… aren't you a prefect? Isn't that—dishonest_?"

"_You'd probably have taken him off the team after one practice anyway—I don't think you could've stood it, him and his horrible boasting. I just decided to hit his ego earlier. Better to have a nervous Keeper than a stuck-up one. _I _don't care much for Quidditch, but a person like that doesn't deserve anything_."

Harry had to agree, and privately thanked Merlin for giving him convenient excuses to skip Slughorn's parties.

They lingered in Honeydukes, Hermione purchasing a large box of deluxe sugar quills and Ron picking out some Fizzing Whizzbees. Harry bought plain old Honeydukes chocolate bars, and was already eating one of them as they left the warmth of Honeydukes behind them and braved the autumn cold on their way to the Three Broomsticks. He swallowed the sweetness of the candy down his throat, looking down the deserted streets. The only person other than them outside was a tall, lean man who Harry recognised as the bartender of the Hog's Head, who was gazing around at his surroundings, his face obscured by a grubby hat.

Ron pushed open the door to the Three Broomsticks with an inelegant bang, and they quickly picked out a table. "I'll get some drinks for us," Ron said—Harry saw him casting a discreet glance at pretty Madam Rosmerta, who wore a smile on her face much more muted than usual, her face a little tired and blank. As he strode to the counter, Hermione threw her scarf down onto the table and shivered a little. "My god, it's cold out there," she said. "We might as well go back after our drinks—we won't be getting anything done here, and if we go back we'll be able to do our homework—"

"I knew you were going to say that," Harry said dryly. "You're so predictable."

"Is that a good thing or a bad thing?" she challenged. "Besides, I'm not _always_ predictable."

"Good thing, I think," Harry replied, grinning. "Cheers to you for getting rid of Umbridge, I should say." He pasted a solemn expression on his face; leaned across the table, grabbed Hermione's hand, and said, seriously, "And so the Ministry awards the Order of Merlin, First Class, to Hermione Granger, for ridding Hogwarts School of horrible women in pink cardigans…"

Hermione looked rather amused and sheepish all at once. "Really?" she asked. "I didn't quite mean for her to be that traumatised—just to get her away from us—"

"Hey, look here, Hermione," Harry said, his levity vanishing as quickly as it had come. He lifted his hand up slightly, and even the slight shadows falling across their table, the greyness of the bleak afternoon could not keep Hermione from seeing the words on the back of his hand, still faintly visible, and barely, just barely, etched into his skin. _I must not tell lies_. "She did plenty of damage," he said, looking down at his hand. "I haven't forgot anything yet."

Hermione smiled a bittersweet smile at him. "And now the war's on in full force," she said. "It's odd, you know—since we're at Hogwarts—sometimes I think I can almost forget the war out there, but then I never do."

"Forget?" asked Ron behind her. She jumped a little, and turned around. Ron handed them warm butterbeers topped with airy foam. "Maybe ignore, but never forget. I think you chose the wrong word there, Hermione."

Hermione did not argue with him. She tipped her tankard of butterbeer back and sipped at the drink, making a face when some of the bubbles went up her nose. Harry stifled the urge to laugh out loud.

"Having trouble with that?" Ron said, a laughing look on his face. "Don't worry, we'll make a drunk out of you in no time."

Hermione turned upon the redhead, a scandalised look on her face, although Harry rather imagined that she looked almost as though she were trying to keep from giggling out loud. "Ron!"

**oOo**

Draco sat at the table in McGonagall's office, quill clutched in hand and glaring at the sheet of parchment in front of him. Merlin, he _hated_ detention. And why did McGonagall have to have it _today_, of all days?

He closed his eyes for a moment. There was a dizzying second where he could nearly feel himself in Madam Rosmerta's mind, that ridiculous bartender's head, and he said—commanded, _Go into the girls' bathroom_.

There was an oddly disconcerting shift in his mind, a moment where his thoughts seem to overlap with her blank mind, a mind of _tabula rasa_, like waves rushing up along the shore of a smooth and bare beach. Then—

"Mr Malfoy." McGonagall's crisp voice scraped gratingly through his thoughts, a thoroughly unwelcome interruption. Draco fought the instinct to immediately open his eyes, and instead made sure that his command had been accepted, that she would _obey_—yes, yes, she would—and then he blinked, and gazed at the professor, her dark hair pulled back in a tight bun, dressed in dark green robes (_Head of Gryffindor House_, he noted. _Then why is she wearing green_?). "Yes, professor?" he drawled lazily, making sure not to sound very attentive. It was always a very good way to irritate McGonagall, and one of Draco's favourite methods.

"I assume, of course, that you are here for detention, and _not_ for idle daydreaming?" The woman looked inquiringly and incisively and disapprovingly at him, her severe face not made any more bearable by her square spectacles. _You'd think she could at least get better glasses_, he thought snidely, and then realised that he ought to come up with a suitable retort.

He couldn't.

"Yes, professor," he said sulkily, and as she turned her attention away from him, he looked down at his parchment—barely marked by his copied lines—and inwardly scowled, berating himself. His father would probably have used up that time to think up an insinuating reply, or many insinuating replies, he thought bitterly. _But Father's in Azkaban. And I'm doing this for his sake—I'll show him I can be a true Malfoy heir. To save the family. Father. Mother_. He shoved away the frisson of terror that shot through him. _What if you can't_? it whispered, and he snarled, _I'm a Malfoy, and a Black. I _will.

He dipped his quill into the bottle of ink resting near his hand, and set quill to parchment. _I will complete my Transfiguration homework whenever it is assigned, without fail_, he wrote—carefully, so as to make sure of his elegant calligraphy (He most certainly wasn't about to scribble like some savage all over the place. _He_ knew better than that.). _I will complete my Transfiguration homework whenever it is assigned, without fail_. Pause. Dip quill in ink. Parchment. Scratch against the smooth vellum. _I will complete my Transfiguration homework whenever it is assigned, without fail_.

The minutes ticked by slowly, painfully slow. Draco did not bother to check the time. _I will complete my Transfiguration homework whenever it is assigned, without fail. I will complete my Transfiguration homework whenever it is assigned, without fail. I will complete_—

_My task_, his mind whispered, and the bartender's consciousness, drifting and floating in blankness in the back of his head, tugged at his attention.

—_my Transfiguration homework whenever it is assigned, without fail_.

_The bathroom door opens_.

He did not dare close his eyes. So he wrote, his hand somewhat slack with disregard, _I will complete my Transfiguration homework_—

_Steps. The door bangs shut_.

—_whenever it is assigned, without fail_. He stopped, and tried hard not to screw up his face in concentration. The sensations he had, coming from Rosmerta the bartender, was interfering with his writing—

—No, he corrected himself. The writing was interfering with his task.

_I will complete_—

_Walks forward_.

—_my Transfiguration homework_—

_Raises wand_.

—_whenever it is assigned_—

_Opens mouth_.

—_without fail_.

"_Imperio_."

**oOo**

"We probably ought to be getting back to Hogwarts," Hermione said frankly, looking at Harry and Ron. "There's not much else to do here in Hogsmeade, and the common room's got a fireplace with nice armchairs, you know."

Ron drained the last of his butterbeer and set the container down on the table with an audible _thunk_. "All right," he said. "But maybe I ought to check on Ginny first—"

"Don't do that!" snapped Hermione. "Ginny will only get irritated. Dean is perfectly fine, there's no need to be overprotective like that—"

"I'm not being overprotective," Ron protested—Harry sniggered loudly, and his friend shot him a dismayed glance—"I'm only trying to make sure she isn't getting into any trouble."

"Overly so," Harry said, slinging an arm around Ron's shoulder and pulling him away from the table. "C'mon, mate, loosen up. It's not like Voldemort's taking her out for a drink."

Ron gagged. "Ugh, Harry," he said. "_Don't_."

"I don't see what's the matter," Hermione said mischievously, coming up on Ron's other side and linking her arm with his. "_I_ think Voldemort would look rather nice in Madam Puddifoot's. Can't you imagine it? Pink all over the place—it matches his eyes."

"His eyes are red," Harry interrupted.

"But you see," Hermione continued smoothly, "isn't that the best thing? Tom Marvolo Riddle, felled by the power of _true love_."

"Hermione, now _you're_ making me feel ill," Harry said.

"And it's more like true hatred," Ron muttered, although he looked mollified by the jests, oddly enough. "You don't suppose Ginny might throw a cake in his face?"

"Three," Harry said at once. "Three's the charm."

"Make it a peach flan," Hermione added. "And then treacle pudding."

"Nah, blood pudding's better," Ron said.

"Steak and kidney pie."

"A bowl of marzipan."

"Blackberry tarts."

"Essence of peppermint."

The three of them playfully traded names of foods as they strolled back to Hogwarts on the weather-worn path. As they kept walking, they came up behind Katie Bell and one of her friends, who seemed to be rather heatedly arguing over a package wrapped in brown paper which Katie held in her hand.

"Just let me see it!" Katie's friend was saying. "How come you won't let me?—"

Katie was already jerking away from her friend. "Leanne, don't!" Her words seemed a little slow, as though she were having to think for a moment. "Look, it's a present for someone, and I don't want to spoil anything—"

"I'm your friend, Katie!" Leanne snapped back. "If you won't even trust me to not tell what it is—" She made a grab for the package, and as she forcefully tugged the parcel from Katie's grasp, both girls stumbled, momentarily imbalanced. Harry caught a gleam of silver and opal as the package fell to the ground. Leanne and Katie both lunged at once for the necklace, Leanne's hand coming down on top of Katie's. Leanne twisted Katie's wrist, a look of irritation and annoyance on her face—

—and then she staggered away from Katie, her face wide and vacant. Katie stared back, her eyes just as glassy.

A sudden feeling of foreboding crept across Harry, and he abandoned his leisurely pace to rush on ahead, Ron and Hermione running behind him ("Harry! What's wrong?" Ron yelled). There was a frantic pounding of blood in his head, and he knew, deep down somewhere in that place where instinct reigned, that something, _something_ bad was going to happen—

The wind seemed to suddenly pick up, and it blew past Harry, swirling around Katie and Leanne. It whipped angrily at their hair, swirling around their heads, and then the two girls began to rise into the air. Harry skidded to a halt just underneath them, staring up at them with something approaching a fearful apprehension.

Their faces were quite blank and void of emotion, their eyes closed as they rose up and up, arms flung out. Ron, standing besides Harry, was looking at them, blue eyes wide in shock. Hermione clutched on to Harry's arm with a tight hold, and whispered, "Oh god, what's _happening_?"

"I don't know," Harry said desperately. But Ron had already begun to run; he shouted back at them, freckles standing out against his pale face, "I'll get help!" before he raced around the corner and was gone. Harry looked back up at the hovering girls and reached for his wand, trying to think of a spell to bring them down.

And then their eyes snapped open, and they both began to scream.

Hermione gasped out loud and stumbled back. Harry shuddered. _Oh, for the love of Merlin_—there was nothing to scream about, nothing he could see, but they screamed and screamed as though the end of the world were coming.

Their separate screams mingled together and clashed against Harry's ears, a chilling cacophony which penetrated to his very soul and froze it with horror. His mind went blank, and he and Hermione both darted forward. He grabbed onto Katie, Hermione holding Leanne; they pulled and pulled, but Katie and Leanne writhed and twisted in their grasp as though possessed by demons. As Harry struggled to keep hold of Katie's right leg, her other leg came around and hit him savagely in the face; he could feel a sickening _crack_ of and glass against his face (_must be my glasses_, he thought), and then she was flailing around and hitting him with her hands, gouging with her fingernails into his skin, and he let go, staggering back and hands over face, eyes closed and crying out.

"Harry!" Hermione screamed, her voice full of terror and pain. Harry groped at the ground, his eyes still closed, and then he heard an ominous thud, and Hermione's loud yell, cut short. "Hermione?" he called out, his voice cracking. _Oh, Ron, Ron, hurry, hurry, hurry_—

"Harry!" Ron's voice came. "Hermione!" Horror, worry, fear.

Then Hagrid's rough words: "Ron, yeh get to the school and tell 'em. Now!"

And then Harry sank like a stone, into a black abyss of peaceful oblivion.

**oOo**

_It's happened_, Hogwarts said, only half a minute before Rubeus Hagrid burst into Severus's office, yelling, "Students in trouble, professor! They—they've bin cursed—" Severus was already reaching for the satchel he had prepared that day in anxious trepidation, waiting for what would happen. He leapt up from his chair. "Infirmary?" he demanded, although he already knew the answer. Hagrid only turned around and charged back out of his office, Severus hard on his heels; he had to take the stairs two at a time to keep up with the half-giant, and it was only when they reached the door to the infirmary that Hagrid came to a stop, Severus nearly running into his back. "Dumbledore tol' me not to go in," he grunted. "Just you an' him."

Severus didn't bother to reply. He pushed open the door and strode in.

"Severus!" Poppy Pomfrey grasped his arm and dragged him to a warded private room. "Oh thank Merlin you're here!"

When he entered the room, Albus was there, bent over the beds and his old face lined with worry. Severus almost stopped for a moment when he saw two bodies instead of one arched up in silent screaming. The girls' hands and feet were tied to the bed, bodies still trying to thrash around. _Katie Bell_, he thought. _Wasn't it just her_?

_Now it's two_, Hogwarts said despairingly. _And Harry and Hermione are injured—they're all right. But Katie and Leanne_! It came out as though it were a loud wail in Severus's head.

He looked at the other person and recognised her as Leanne Rosebay, a girl who in the other time had, at least, escaped harm. _Damn_.

"They've both already lost their voices," Albus said, his voice strained and tired. "About a minute ago." He continued to wave his wand over them, shedding gleaming silver light onto the girls. "I don't know how they've been cursed—I've stabilised them, but not for long. Severus, you must hurry."

"Understood," Severus said, setting his satchel on a nearby chair. Albus nodded, his eyes following his every movement, as he murmured his stabilising spell. Severus pulled out a sharp knife and came over to the bed, scrutinising Katie Bell and her friend. Bell's skin, normally tan from Quidditch practice, was now marred by an ugly black, and Severus followed the repulsive colour as it coursed through her veins, back to her hand. It was the same for Leanne Rosebay.

_Damn_, Severus thought again. It had been hard enough to save Katie Bell; now he had another life to save, and the other girl would be worse off. Unless he could deal with both at the same time. Except that meant he would have to exercise a lot of magic—too much magic for Albus to notice…

"Albus, go out, please," he gritted through his teeth. "I want to deal with this alone."

Albus blinked in surprise, but moved toward the door, and Severus relaxed as he heard the door close shut behind the headmaster and the lock click. Then he said, tersely, _Shield the room. I'm going to let out my magic_.

_Very well_. Hogwarts paused for a moment. Then: _It's done_. The castle fell silent; she knew Severus needed to concentrate.

Severus pulled the shields off his magic with a desperate urgency and seized upon the rising layers with a stern command. _Stay_, he snarled, and his magic, surprised and a little intimidated, spread up and along the walls and clung to the surfaces, licking with black flames at the walls.

He gripped the handle of his knife hard, and leaned over Bell, grabbing her left hand and turning it so that it was palm up. He set the sharp edge of the knife against her skin and made a surgical slit across the vein. "_Attrahereme_," he muttered quickly. "_Attrahereme, attrahereme venenum, attrahereme venenum_."

_Where's the damn basin_? he thought irritably. _I need it_ now. There was a soft _clink_ as a small basin came to him, summoned by his agitated thoughts, and he pushed Bell's hand over the basin. "_Attrahereme venenum_!" he snapped. _I want that poison out, _now. _Now_.

But the poison rested within her veins, spreading out and out and out. Severus cursed under his breath, but there wasn't time to wait for Katie Bell to bleed out the poison when there was Leanne Rosebay as well. He hurried to the other bed and did the same for her, cutting across her wrist and holding it over the basin. Neither of the girls even bled—the poison clogged up the pathways and congealed there, and Severus watched in alarm and anger.

He glared up at the ceiling. _Get down here_, he told them, _and do as you're told to do_.

But the magic had still been caged for too long, and Severus snarled with impatience when he heard the magic's petulant reply. _No. I don't want to. I want to play_.

Severus let out a savage hiss. _Get _down _here_, he said, his voice now frigid with anger, and pulled at it. It resisted, and he pulled harder. It coalesced into a black phoenix, and spat silver and black fire. _Don't want to_, it said sulkily.

_NOW_. It was a silky, cold tone; not a shout or yell, but glacial as ice.

_Spoilsport_, his magic said again, but it jumped from the walls and made a shining black halo around his hand.

He put his hand over Rosebay's wrist. _Out_, he thought with a fierceness that seemed to make the walls tremble and Hogwarts wince at his magic. And it did, spurting out of her cut vein in jets of black-coloured bile, splattering into the stone basin. Severus watched as Leanne Rosebay's skin slowly returned to normal, the darkness within her expunged from her blood. She stopped trying to move, and lay quite still on the bed, her eyelids fluttering and her chest rising, hovering on the edge of consciousness.

He turned to Katie Bell, ready to do the same, and saw that the poison had already worked its way to the bottom of her neck, and was spiralling up towards her head. If it did—

_She will die_. Severus knew that with a terrible certainty. He would not have time to work out all the poison out through her wrist—it would be too late, even then. So—

Desperate times called for desperate measures. Severus looked at her neck, her thin tan neck slick with sweat, and _cut_ with his magic into the jugular vein, and the red blood flowed out, not blocked by any poison. His magic rose around him, and he narrowed his eyes at the severed vein—_Poppy can fix that later_, he thought almost detachedly—and then whispered, his mind sharpened by the spell even if it wasn't needed, "_Expungere_." And his magic—black and silver and dancing—shot into the vein and charged its way down, driving the poison out and through the cut wrist into the stone basin; the jugular vein stoppered, the flow of blood halted. He was aware, very aware, that if it weren't for Hogwarts shielding his magic from the others, Albus would be wondering just _what_ in the world was going on. Then again, he was probably doing so anyway.

He wearily straightened up, and then a silver mole fluttered through the wall.

Severus jerked his head up, just in time to see the unfortunate mole buffeted by his swirling magic. He sighed. _Come here_, he said, and the silver mole made its way over to him, finally coming to his feet. He bent down, and then the silver Patronus touched its nose to his hand and dissipated into thin air.

Percy Weasley's voice, echoing in his head. He must have used the more complicated way of sending a message by Patronus, instead of the usual, quick Patronus flash. "_I have something that you might find of interest, sir_."

He wondered, tiredly, why the hell Weasley just didn't say what that something might be. He decided not to reply. The redhead was always at the Ministry anyway; he would be contacted when he had time.

The girls now seemed to be out of danger. Severus glanced at the basin, full to the brim with the poison that had nearly killed Rosebay and Bell (_twice for Katie Bell_, his mind whispered). It lay inert, its surface deceptively smooth and showing nothing of the danger that it was.

He reeled his magic back in as quickly as he could. It whined and sulked and said it didn't want to, it flicked lazily under his chin and shimmered around his arms, but in the end it was coiled up in layers, under his shields. _Is Albus still outside_? he asked Hogwarts.

_Yes, he is_, replied the castle. _Pacing around and looking rather like a worried grandfather. You ought to let him in and put his mind at ease_.

_Perhaps I ought to lock myself in here and make him worry for the rest of the day_, Severus said dryly, but he sent an unlocking spell towards the door all the same. It swung open with the barest hint of a squeak—_must have the hinges oiled sometime_, Severus noted—and then Albus stepped inside, his blue eyes bright with worry, his face relaxing when he saw Severus. He quietly stepped over, and rested his hand on Severus's right shoulder. "Are they all right?" he said, his voice more of a whisper than anything.

"As much as they can be," Severus replied tersely. "But they'll have to be moved to St Mungo's, I think. The poison's been purged—they're not in any immediate danger—but they need to recover from what it did while inside them."

Albus leaned against him slightly—Severus caught the whiff of sherbet lemon—and said, "Well." He sounded reassured, thankful. "Well done, Severus."

It was odd, Severus thought, how the most offensive of insults glanced off of him as though they were nothing, yet a few words from Albus made him feel… strange inside. Not quite happiness, so much as it was… ease. Satisfaction. Or maybe it was all the same. He turned his head to look at Albus, and saw the sudden image of the headmaster smiling in relief, blue eyes alive and twinkling, his step lively and not at all like the headmaster who had slid down the wall of the tower, the lightning-struck tower—defeated, tired, infinitely weary, and who had whispered, _Severus_—

—"please." Severus gave a violent start. He hadn't noticed that Albus had moved away from him and was now examining the girls, making sure they were all right.

"Excuse me, Albus?" His voice came out hoarse, and Severus cursed himself for being caught off guard.

"I was saying, Severus, that you need to get some rest," Albus said, his voice light. "You've been working yourself too hard these past few weeks—"

"You do know, don't you, who the perpetrator is?" The words came out more sharply than he'd intended them to be, and he winced inwardly at how the words, loud and curt, lingered in the air.

"Perfectly well, Severus." Albus's face was placid.

"And he won't stop at trying, even if his methods are crude—"

"Severus, Severus," Albus said patiently. "We've already spoken about this."

Severus shut his mouth. Albus's voice, calm but reproachful, nearly made him feel like a mulish idiot.

"And did you really have to sever Katie's jugular vein?" Albus continued.

"It was necessary," Severus said curtly.

"Yes, I suppose some things are," Albus replied casually. "But rest, won't you? I've already contacted St Mungo's, so—" He ushered Severus out of the room, and Severus blinked at the sight of two more beds with _very_ familiar occupants, and a boy sprawled in a chair, flaming red hair marking his identity. _What in the_…?

_I told you Harry and Hermione were injured as well_, Hogwarts said. _When they were trying to pull Katie and Leanne down_.

_Oh, _that's_ smart_, said Severus. _Even though they had no idea of what had happened_?

Hogwarts sighed. _Well, you must give them credit for trying. How were they to know what was wrong with Katie and Leanne_?

_Exactly. They _didn't _know_.

As the door of the room swung shut behind him, Ron Weasley turned around and gave Albus a weak smile (Severus was not so silly as to think it was meant for him.) "Katie and her friend," he said. "Are they all right?"

"Yes, they are," Albus said kindly. "Thanks to Professor Snape here." He inclined his head in Severus's direction, and as Weasley followed his nod, Severus scowled openly.

"Oh," said Weasley. He plainly didn't know what to say to Severus, and turned a little red; a "thank you" or a "glad you're with us" was obviously out of the question. Severus turned away, Albus following him, and walked to the door of the infirmary, pushing it open.

Albus patted his shoulder amiably. "But as I said before," he said softly, "Relax. I'll have the house elves bring you some dinner. Get some sleep. You need it."

_When do I not_? Severus wondered wearily; nodded; and left, his imposing black robes billowing out behind him. He could not have known that as he went, Albus Dumbledore watched him leave and thought, _My dear boy_; words that he never said—because Severus disliked such endearments—but the headmaster meant them, to the fullest of their meaning.

**oOo**

Ron glanced up from his vigil as Dumbledore came back in. The white-bearded wizard nodded to him, a small smile on his lips, and then vanished into Madam Pomfrey's office.

He looked back at Harry and Hermione. Harry's glasses had been broken, no more than shattered glass and now irreparable, not even with _Reparo_; he would need new ones, and Ron was already thinking what shop in Diagon Alley provided for eyewear. Hermione had suffered a mild concussion from being flung to the ground and hitting the roots of a nearby tree, but they were both all right.

He was relieved that his best friends weren't in a life or death situation—he was thankful for that—but his mind kept coming back to the words he had heard just a moment ago. When Dumbledore had gone into the private room where he assumed Katie and her friend Leanne must be, he had not fully closed the door behind him. Although Ron had kept his head bowed and down, as though he weren't eavesdropping, he had heard some of what Snape and Dumbledore had said. And even then, he had barely been able to hear it.

"_I was saying, Severus, that you need to get some rest. You've been working yourself too hard these past few weeks_—" Dumbledore's voice, blithe and untroubled.

Then Snape's words, cutting like a whip. "_You do know, don't you, who the perpetrator is_?"

"_Perfectly well, Severus_." It was odd to hear Snape's first name spoken aloud, Ron had thought, and yet he had heard a certain tone in Dumbledore's voice that sounded almost—affectionate. And somewhat reproving.

"_And he won't stop at trying, even if his methods are crude_—"

"_Severus, Severus. We've already spoken about this_."

_But that means someone's trying to attack Hogwarts students, doesn't it_? thought Ron. _Or maybe_—

Katie Bell's voice, detached. "_Look, it's a present for someone, and I don't want to spoil anything_—"

_Or maybe Dumbledore_.

"_You do know, don't you, who the perpetrator is_?"

"_Perfectly well, Severus_."

_Then_—and then Ron suddenly realised a rush of thought—_Dumbledore must know! He knows someone's after him! And he isn't doing anything about it_!

"_And he won't stop at trying, even if his methods are crude_—"

_A he_, Ron considered. _Snape knows who it is, too. So it's got to be a boy—probably a Slytherin_.

_Slytherin boy. That's got to be Malfoy_.

Ron thought fiercely about bouncing Malfoy around Hogwarts. _That filthy little ferret, trying to kill Dumbledore_—His head seemed to fill with a sort of red-tinged rage, and he gritted his teeth. _Calm down, Weasley_, he snapped at himself. _It won't do any good if you try to strangle Malfoy right now_.

_I'll watch him_, he decided. _I'll watch him, and make sure he isn't going to pull any murder attempt soon. Harry's got enough on his plate with Occlumency and You-Know-Who after him, and Hermione will just say it can't be Malfoy, he wouldn't do that, he doesn't have the guts_.

_But I'll be keeping an eye on him_, Ron thought to himself, filled with resolve. _I _will.

**oOo**

Some of the dialogue in this chapter is a loose version of dialogue from Chapter 12 of HBP: Silver and Opals. The reasoning on Occlumency is based upon the theory duj proposes in her excellent _Who Lives in Disguise_.

_Tabula rasa_ is Locke's "blank slate," and although it is more often applied to the perception of human minds as being without innate conceptions, I thought it rather apt for describing poor Madam Rosmerta and her blank slate (mind, under Imperius) on which Draco Malfoy "scribbles" his orders, so to speak.

"_Attrahereme venenum_" is rough Latin for "to draw to me," as in Snape drawing the poison to him, out of Katie and Leanne.

**IMPORTANT NOTE:** The next update will definitely be after June 3. Why, you ask? (pauses, eyes the upcoming SAT I) Bloody stupid standardized tests, that's why. Standardized tests that happen to bevery, very important in university admissions. I'm trying to aim for at least a score in the high 2300s (full score is 2400), and let me tell you, it isn't easy. But don't worry about updates becoming few and far between; after the test is over, I have at least a month of freedom before my family moves and my life is disrupted once again. I should have more time to write then. (Finally!)

So, please review! It really encourages me; feedback is always appreciated.

Talriga


	17. Chapter 17

I'll be honest, shall I?

I. Hate. Writer's. Block.

It is the reason for the long wait, and the shortness of this chapter. I was simply stuck in some places of Ch. 17, and I feel sorry and guilty for breaking my promise to have it out soon after June 3. But anyway, I hope you enjoy.

**Chapter 17**

Percy Weasley blinked when he opened his door to see an unfamiliar man standing there. He was brown-haired and blue-eyed, and almost singularly nondescript in appearance. "Yes?" he said inquiringly.

Then the man smiled, and Percy knew who it was. Snape's little smirk on the man's face. "I had an appointment with you, if you recall—I was hoping to speak to you about business," Snape said smoothly, "concerning the regulations of caldron bottoms, and it is a very urgent matter—"

Percy cut him off. He usually didn't interrupt Snape, but then again, that was when Snape was in his usual visual form; here, the scenario was Percy Weasley the bureaucrat speaking curtly to some insignificant unknown. Odd, really, how he felt amusement in doing so. "Oh, yes, that. Please, do come in, Mr—" he cast around for a suitably British last name "—Quin." He opened the door a little wider and stepped to one side.

Snape's face did not alter when he heard his new name. "Yes. Thank you, Mr Weasley."

Percy suppressed another frisson of amusement. The Severus Snape everyone knew would never be caught saying thanks of any kind to… well, to anyone.

He closed the door behind Snape as the wizard entered, and turned to see Snape eyeing him curiously. "Mr Quin?" Snape murmured; his glamour charm faded away, revealing his black eyes, black hair.

"I could hardly call you Professor Snape, could I?" said Percy. "Tea?"

Snape nodded. Percy flicked his wand, and the tea kettle floated over to him. "Sugar?" he asked, the kettle hovering over two slightly chipped white cups.

"Two lumps."

Percy handed a cup to Snape. "So you did receive my Patronus?"

Snape looked up, his eyes narrowed. "Why else would I be here, unless it were for something of interest?" His voice fell on Percy's ears like shards of glass.

"I'm not quite that stupid," the redhead muttered. "Confirm, not ask out of ignorance."

The smirk on Snape's face widened ever so slightly. "So you say," he said. "Well? What is it that I'm supposed to find of interest? And be quick about it, I need to return to Hogwarts for the Halloween feast."

Percy got to his feet. "I'll be right back," he said. "If you would be patient—"

"A piece of advice which your family would do well to follow," said Snape. "I caught your youngest brother yesterday trying to hex Draco Malfoy for no apparent reason whatsoever, except that he was near the headmaster's office and was supposedly 'acting odd,' as he put it. It might not surprise you to know that I assigned him a week's worth of detention."

Percy only scowled (although he was not quite sure whether it was at Snape's snide words or at Ron's doubtless impulsive actions) and left the room. He came back, carrying a rather dusty looking tome in his hands, and handed it to Snape, who gave it a piercing look.

"Where did you get this?" the professor asked. The book looked ancient and was bound in dark blue leather that was slightly warped, Percy supposed from age or perhaps damaging storage conditions; it could have been in a worse state, but preservation charms had been cast upon the manuscript. Snape opened the book, and on the first page, in small, cramped handwriting, was written, _Eadmer ap Sirideainn_. Snape's dark eyes showed no sign of recognition (Percy thought rather sourly that Snape's eyes might as well be chips of black ice, for all the knowledge that could be gleaned from them), but he tilted his head up to look at Percy and said, "Sirideainn?"

"I recognised the last name from what you told me of the research," Percy answered, shifting uncomfortably under Snape's relentless gaze. "Tracing werewolves—you said that the earliest one was a man by the name of Thorvald ap Sirideainn. And I thought—that it was a remarkable coincidence."

Snape made a nod of assent; repeated, "Where did you get this?"

"Well," began Percy, "I was looking through some reports on property confiscated from the houses of Death Eaters—those in Azkaban—and one summary brought this up. '_A diary written by a wizard named Eadmer ap Sirideainn_.'"

"How did you manage to take the diary, then?"

Percy kept a perfectly straight face as he replied, "I work in the Minister's office, you know—and I was sure that Minister Scrimgeour certainly wouldn't notice the removal of just one book. The papers don't say anything about it."

"Not _anymore_, I suppose," said Snape pointedly. "And imagine, you were Head Boy and prefect, stickler for rules."

"It's not as though you ever followed the rules," Percy said.

"I was never Head Boy," Snape said. "Another person had that most dubious honour."

Percy frowned as he remembered just who had had that honour, but he said nothing. Instead, he leaned over and turned the pages to a certain passage he had noticed. "In any case," he said, "read this, if you will."

Snape frowned as he looked at the page. The words were written in faded black ink, blurred due to time, but they were still legible.

_Celadon has already not so very kindly informed me that he will be unable to obtain the supplies I need for my experiments until the next full moon. According to him, the wolfsbane must be harvested at a certain time of the year. I have no doubt this is probably because Celadon wants to charge more for the plant, and withhold it until I am ready to pay more for it, but I admit it is needed. Celadon knows all there is to know about what specific type of wolfsbane is needed. In order to test the magic channeling properties of the plant, I have enlisted Thorvald to help me with the experiment_.

"What relation was Thorvald to Eadmer?" Snape asked softly, his dark eyes fixed on the passage.

"Thorvald was the older brother," Percy answered succinctly. "There's more." He turned several more pages and jerked his head at another excerpt, disfigured by smudges of ink. The writer had plainly wrote the entry in an agitated state.

_Something has gone wrong._

_I started working just last night, the night of the full moon, with Thorvald at my side. He gave me aid in trying to channel as much magic as possible through our wands, without causing that strange dementia which happens if one uses magic too much. We were outside, in the middle of a henge—it would allow for the maximum amount of magic to be used. Somehow—I don't know how it happened, magic is such a chaotic force, with no rules whatsoever—the magic Thorvald was using turned upon him while he was preparing the wolfsbane. I was several feet away, but I saw how it seemed to drive into him with a spitting fury._

_I was almost afraid that it might kill him, just as Wulfstan of the hills was killed by his magic. Instead, he began to twist in convulsions—I tried to use the Captura Wulf spell on him, the one we regularly use to keep the wolves from attacking us, but it only seemed to worsen his situation. And all that time, I could hear him screaming, as though he were being torn apart from the insides and slapped back together. I dared not get close to him, so I rushed to Caedmon's house through Aparoir, and fetched him for help. But when we finally got back to the henge, I could not find Thorvald anywhere. There was blood on the ground and the stones of the henge, but we could not find him. There is still no sign of him, and he has been gone for nearly a day. Father Aelfric is worried; he cannot eat_.

Snape's head came up. "A magical experiment?" he asked harshly. "Do you mean to imply that lycanthropy came about due to someone's stupidity?"

"I'm implying nothing," Percy snapped back. "I'm showing you what I found. Remember, didn't Alric Aranærdin create a passageway between the material and spiritual planes—just through experimenting? Look—this Thorvald ap Sirideainn was preparing the wolfsbane when the magic rebounded back upon him and attacked him. You know the magic back then was wild and chaotic and uncontrolled at times—and then Eadmer used a spell on him that they specifically invoked against wolves! Couldn't that have influenced the wild magic to change Thorvald into a wolf form?"

Snape was silent. Then he said, "Yes. It does not seem to be a coincidence."

_Evanthius, who lives at the lake, has found Thorvald. Father Aelfric, Caedmon, and I went to see him. His appearance is horrifying—he bleeds all over, and scars run along the length of his body. He himself remembers nothing of what happened, only that horrible pain. Evanthius says he discovered Thorvald next to the body of a dead doe, but Thorvald says he does not even remember what killed it. Caedmon suggested that Thorvald may have killed it himself, but if that were the case, why are the marks on the doe that of a wolf's? I myself imagine that a wolf killed the doe, and then later Thorvald stumbled upon her, blinded by the wild magic though he was. Although I still do not quite see how that works, as the blood of the doe was still rather fresh._

_Father Aelfric has forbidden us from using our magic for many moons. I am sorely disappointed, but I understand his fears. It is not as though I would like to suffer what Thorvald suffered_.

The last entry in Eadmer ap Sirideainn's writing was several hours before the full moon after Thorvald's accident.

_Thorvald has changed. It is very odd—he is able to smell odours, hear noises, see things that he never did before. I admit, it disturbs me. The magic has warped him, I think—he does not quite seem to recognise me at times. But oddly enough, he cannot stand wolfsbane. It must have been the wild magic—if only it had not happened. I wish that I had never bothered with the experiments—that Celadon had not obtained the supplies for me, if only Thorvald could be the way he once was._

_I am at Caedmon's house now. Caedmon has agreed to read through my notes on the experiments and see what might have happened. I leave this record with him for now, as hopefully it may help him in discovering what has happened to Thorvald_.

"Is that it?" Snape asked.

"There's one more entry," Percy said; his heart seemed to skip a beat. "But Eadmer didn't write it. His friend Caedmon did. And—well."

_Aelfric and Eadmer ap Sirideainn are dead. I was going to return this and his records to Eadmer, and yet when I arrived at the house all was silent. The door had been battered to pieces, and when I came up the path, I smelled blood. The two of them had been torn to shreds; it was horrific._

_I know Thorvald has something to do with this—I know he must. He is missing, and I have called the others to help me look for him, but he has disappeared._

_I have handed this over to the lord nearby, to preserve it for others to read in the years to come. Magic is not a plaything—I fear that many may ignore this, but it has cost the lives of two of my friends and ruined the life of another. So let my descendants know of this, and be careful_.

The two wizards sat there. Percy watched Snape's facial expression; the black-haired wizard said nothing. He only closed the book and stood up, turning to face Percy. "I will take this book to examine it more carefully," he began. "Speak of this to no-one. _No-one_, you understand?"

"Yes, sir," said Percy. There was something about the tone of Snape's voice that automatically demanded for him to be addressed seriously and with respect.

Snape swung back around, but Percy caught a glimpse of his face suddenly tightening, lines of strain appearing, before his glamour fell over him again and Professor Snape was no longer there. Mr Quin nodded at him and opened the door. "Thank you, Mr Weasley," he said, his voice perfectly normal and almost flippant. "I appreciate your help. I trust you are satisfied with the results?" He looked at Percy.

"Yes, very much indeed," Percy said. "Good day, Mr Quin. Have a pleasant Halloween." Snape gave him a nod of acknowledgement, and then Disapparated with a quiet, barely noticeable _pop_.

Percy stared at the place where Snape had been. Then he went back into his flat, the door closing behind him; pinched the bridge of his nose; sighed; and then proceeded to pour himself another cup of tea.

**oOo**

Hats off to the mysterious Mr Quin, the eponymous detective of an Agatha Christie book (_The Mysterious Mr Quin_).

"Captura" is Latin for "seizure," "wulf" is Old English for (what else?) "wolf," and "aparoir" is Old French for "appear." I imagine Aparoir to be sort of an older form of Apparation, one which at that time utilised "Dark" magic. Apparation is based upon the system of "Light" magic. You may want to refer back to Ch. 4, concerning the excerpts from Alistair Norman's _History of the Unforgivables_.

A henge is a prehistoric circle with standing stones: a prehistoric oval or circular area, often bounded by a mound or ditch, that contains standing stones or wooden pillars that were erected during the Neolithic or Bronze Age (definition from Encarta Dictionary Tools).

Of course, in the old days Eadmer ap Sirideainn would have used some ancient form of English, incomprehensible to us present-day English speakers. I didn't want to translate all of his diary entries to Old English or something like that. Just imagine the headaches! ;)

Once again, I am very sorry about the delay. I'll try to have Ch. 18 up much more quickly. Please review!

Talriga


	18. Chapter 18

(_At around 7:10 this morning, the twenty-sixth of June, Talriga is doing a dance around the house, screaming, "Yes! Yes! Yes!"_)

Well, the results for the June SAT I just came out online this morning. And—guess what?

2390! I got 2390 out of 2400! Yes!

My day has been absolutely wonderful. Not only did I make a nearly perfect score on the SAT I, I also hit a home run in a softball game (My very first one; it happened to be the one which broke a tie--the winning home run.).

Ah, but I'm probably boring you all with my account of today. So, about Ch. 18—

**Warning:** There is some description of torture in this chapter. Blame it all on Bellatrix.

**Chapter 18**

The holiday Severus hated most was probably Halloween.

First, there were those ridiculous jack-o'-lanterns floating around the Great Hall, grotesque expressions carved into the pumpkins, candles hovering within the orange spheres and flickering with a mellow light. Not to mention the hordes of bats that swooped overhead and irritated Severus to no end; he idly wished that he could set fire to some of the bats and see how they reacted.

Then there was the colour scheme. Orange. And black. Black was all right; black was black, and Severus wore that colour all the time. It suited his mood best, and it went along with his hair. Albus always said it made him look like a vampire, but Severus considered it perfectly fine to ignore him, since Albus was the kind of person who thought bright pink was a wonderful colour—"No wonder you like Nymphadora Tonks so much," Severus had said snidely one time. "Both of you have atrocious taste in fashion."

But orange—bright, ridiculous orange, contrasted with black—it looked dreadful. He had to admit, he thought it was worse than the red and green of Christmas (and just _who_ had had the bright idea of putting Gryffindor and Slytherin colours together? Must've been an imbecile, Severus supposed). Worst of all, it gave Albus an excuse to wear robes of bright orange and black, with little dancing skeletons and snarling black cats on them, which only served to promote the image of batty old Albus Dumbledore. Then again, he _was_ batty sometimes, and he _was_ old. But still…

"Turbot, Severus?" Minerva asked, gesturing to a pewter dish next to her which was occupied by the European flatfish, its two eyes (disconcertingly enough, on the same side) dully staring upwards.

"No thank you, Minerva," Severus replied, and took another small stab at his beef sirloin.

And finally, Severus half expected something bad to happen. Again. He was forever aware of what had happened on Halloween. What had happened, fifteen years ago: when he had momentarily been released from the Dark Lord's service, but one of his friends had died. And he could never really forget why Lily Evans had died—because he had inadvertently set the Dark Lord on her and Potter when he had followed Albus's orders and reported the first part of the prophecy to him.

He knew he himself regretted it; he knew Albus regretted it, that instant when the old wizard had tried to play war leader and knowingly put people in danger, and yet had not quite succeeded in keeping his emotional detachment. Albus could be a war leader, sometimes, but he also loved others too much to stay that way for long.

Severus had broken his promise to Lily that he would keep the Death Eaters away from her; he had narrowly avoided the backlash of not fulfilling the life-debt with which James Potter had saddled him. At that time, Severus remembered, the Dark Lord had been fully terrorising the British wizarding world, and the prophecy had been intended as a way to distract him. Now he wished he'd never given it to the Dark Lord. Prophecies were self-fulfilling; not all of them came true, if no-one acted upon them; and that meant Lily might have survived. When he had first considered time-travelling, he had thought that he might even go further back in time and prevent Lily's death, but he had grudgingly recognised the fact that the world would be so changed through his actions that he would be unable to know anything that might happen.

And then, of course, there was that list of Halloween incidents that had occurred ever since Harry Potter had come to Hogwarts. Severus glanced over at the Gryffindor table to see Potter finishing off a baked potato. What a complacent boy, his messy black hair sticking up in all directions and falling over his scar. He wondered if Potter ever really thought about how he was supposed to defeat the Dark Lord. He wondered how Lily had managed to defeat the Dark Lord, the first time around (because _Lily_ had defeated him through her sacrifice, not the Potter boy, and perhaps it was that which really infuriated Severus; why all this fuss about the Boy-Who-Lived, what about the Woman-Who-Died? Harry Potter had been a one-year-old, most likely some snotty little brat.). And he wondered how he was to take care of all the issues that crowded into his mind and demanded his attention. Eadmer ap Sirideainn's diary, which he had brought back from Percy Weasley's flat earlier in the day, was in his rooms; he had to keep an eye on Draco and Madam Rosmerta; and then there were the centaurs—

"Severus! Don't be grumpy, cheer up!" (Severus suppressed the urge to raise his eyebrows. No-one had ever told him that before in so open a manner.) "Here, have a mince pie, won't you?"

It was Horace Slughorn, although Severus had guessed as much. Only Horace had that peculiar quality of almost always sounding annoying jovial and actually telling Severus to be just as annoyingly jovial.

_Just because his disposition is naturally jovial doesn't mean you should insult him_, said Hogwarts chidingly.

"Very well, then," Severus said, taking the proffered mince pie from Horace, who was leaning around the ghost of Harold Binns and discreetly trying not to talk through the ectoplasmic being out of politeness. "And how are your classes?" It was a bland question, one that Severus was sure would have Horace talking for some time, requiring only some noncommittal reply from Severus here and there.

Horace's face lit up, and the tips of his mustache quivered with some emotion akin to enjoyment. "Oh, they've been proceeding quite nicely," he said. "Although the students are overly cautious at times. I've been encouraging Hermione Granger to experiment some more—she does tend to follow the directions too strictly—but she does have talent. I'm thinking that I may assign her an independent study project, as a matter of fact."

"I see," said Severus. Horace's conversations always seemed to gravitate towards Granger, his words full of effusive praise and whatnot. Many of the other professors, like Minerva, joined him in doing so; Severus simply found it all rather tiresome, and it amused him that the only other professor who agreed with him was Sibyl Trelawney. "What do you have in mind?"

"Well, I'm not quite sure yet—in any case, it would be after Christmas break. Two months isn't much time to brew a potion that requires more than that, and that's the kind of potion I have in mind. Maybe the more complicated ones, such as… oh, Veritaserum. Or Rememorari. I'm sure she'd like it."

"Undoubtedly," Severus said dryly. "Miss Granger tends to regard any kind of schoolwork with an excess of enthusiasm."

Hogwarts sighed. _You and your backhanded compliments_.

_Backhanded compliment_? Severus asked. _I don't see any compliment in calling her a teacher's pet_.

_If she were a teacher's pet, she wouldn't have stolen potions ingredients from your supplies four years ago_.

Severus simmered, unable to think up a quick retort. A thousand years or so of existence had given Hogwarts castle the unusual ability to be able to end a conversation with Severus on her own terms.

"Well, she's definitely enthusiastic." Horace beamed. "Much like Lily, you remember. Rather a shame to see that her Potions talent was not passed down to Harry."

"A shame, yes," Severus murmured. Under his breath, he added, "It probably would have been wasted, anyway."

"And he hasn't been able to come to one of my little soirees yet—he's very busy, it seems. The Chosen One, and all that." Horace sighed rather dramatically. "The poor lad, what a burden at such a young age."

"I consider the 'Chosen One' talk all rubbish," Severus replied. "As though there were some divine being out there directing our fates. I should think we make our own paths in life. In any case, Potter's just some reckless boy who has a tendency to be in the most improbable of situations." His voice was clipped and precise, sardonic and harsh.

"Now, now, Severus, you're being too hard on the boy. Especially considering You-Know-Who…"

"Well. Yes." Severus said the words evenly. "There is that, of course." There _was_ always that to consider: the Dark Lord, in the shadows.

The conversation between Severus and Horace slowly sputtered and came to an end, and Hogwarts fell silent, contentedly basking in the gaiety of most of the students; Horace turned to chat with Magna Vector, who sat on his other side, while Severus was quiet and looked around the Great Hall. It was full of noise, brought about by the clattering of cutlery and the hubbub of voices, as the students set to devouring their food and demolishing the Halloween feast. Their cheerful conversations floated up to the ceiling, which showed the night sky, sprinkled with glinting stars.

But Severus caught sight of a hazy red object on the edges. _Mars, the harbinger of war_. It had been brightening for some time—just as the glowing, green Dark Mark was bursting above houses once again, with a whispered incantation—

_Morsmordre_.

Hogwarts twitched within his mind. She did not say anything, but he felt the sharp pain, the acute pain like that of a keen, flashing knife—twisting deeply, deeply, so very deeply, into his soul, and hers.

And he wondered when his Dark Mark would burn again, and bring more tidings of a capture, or an attack, or a death.

**oOo**

He had been an elderly man—probably in his late eighties, she guessed—but still physically healthy and quick on his feet. But Bellatrix Lestrange had won, in the end. Now Ellis Wyatt was dead, and nothing more than a waste of space.

_Then again, he's always been a waste of space_, thought Bella as she stepped over his body, not even deigning to look down at him. Mudbloods were like that, scurrying around and thinking themselves so _equal_ to the purest of the pure. Pathetic, almost.

"Bellatrix." That was Coleus Yaxley, calling to her. He appeared in the open doorway. "We found the Wyatt woman. Trying to get past the Apparition wards." His lip curled slightly, showing his disgust at the woman's obvious stupidity.

"I'll deal with her," Bella said, smiling a smile like that of a shark descending upon its next meal. She turned her head briefly to survey the parlour, full of wrecked furniture and shattered possessions. Blood was smeared on the walls and splattered across her robes, and a growing dark red stain was discolouring the fluffy carpet where Ellis Wyatt was sprawled. Bella's smile only grew wider.

_I think I will let the woman see her dead husband before I kill her_, she decided. _There's no point in letting her die without some torture before she does_.

She walked through the doorway into the entrance hall. Amycus, the Carrow brother, was there, wand drawn over the bound and silenced form of an old woman with curly grey hair. Joanna Wyatt stared up at them, obviously terrified. Her wide eyes widened even more when she saw Bella.

"Her wand?" Bella said.

"Here," said Amycus, thrusting it into her hands.

Bella regarded it with something approaching revulsion, and then snapped it with an almost careless motion, throwing the broken pieces to the ground. "I'll take care of her," she said. "You haven't—done anything to her, have you, Amycus? I would hate it if you—_spoiled_ my fun." She narrowed her eyes. Amycus Carrow, what a dimwit. And Yaxley always stood there and said nothing.

Amycus swung his head around to look at her, and sniggered. "I only wish."

Bella stood over the Wyatt woman and flicked her wand, removing the _Silencio_ that had rendered her mute. "Mrs Wyatt," she said, her voice high and amused, "how very ill-mannered of you. Shouldn't you greet us properly?"

Wyatt only stiffened. Her eyes travelled over Bella, her face, her smile; rested upon her robes. Bella's robes were black, but she could still see the blood dripping down the cloth. "Where's Ellis?" she said, not quite managing to conceal the raw fear and hatred that showed through her thin veneer of forced restraint, her voice not yet a scream. "What have you _done_ to him?"

"Silly, silly," Bella crooned, reaching down and tilting up Wyatt's head, her nails digging into her skin. "He was rather boring, you know. Both of you are. Poor, poor Ellis. Little Ellis." She gave Joanna Wyatt a poisonously sweet smile, but Wyatt only flinched back from her and shrank away, as much as she could while bound with ropes. "He couldn't even scream that long, such a pity. He had a wonderful scream, you know," she continued, her voice almost dreamy.

Joanna Wyatt's face went stark white.

And then Bella met her eyes—_Legilimens_—and dove into her mind.

A pitiful mind, she decided as she exited it. Weak, and feeble, and powerless. The woman's death would be all the more… enjoyable. Even if she did snap early on.

"Go ahead," she said to Yaxley and Amycus. "Look through their papers, as our Lord commanded."

Yaxley nodded, a brusque movement of his head that slashed through the air. Amycus looked rather sulky, as though he would have liked to stay with Bella and see what would happen, but he followed Yaxley upstairs, throwing a dark look back at her.

Bella smiled again, and the ropes around Joanna Wyatt fell away from her. Wyatt stared, her eyes full of astonishment and a touch of wariness, and then took a step back. "Come now, not so fast," Bella called out. "Wouldn't you like to stay and play?" _Really_, she thought, _the Mudblood is being so very stupid_.

Wyatt did not reply; she turned around, ready to run, but Bella sang out, her voice caressing the incantation, "_Imperio_." At once, Wyatt relaxed. _Turn around_, Bella thought lazily, and the woman turned. Her face had gone slack, although she seemed to twitch a little here and there.

"Let's go into the parlour, shall we?" Bella said, almost as though she were holding a conversation, and pushed Wyatt towards the entrance, the two of them going back into the wrecked room. "Kneel," she continued, and the woman knelt, the body of her dead husband before her.

Bella cocked her head to one side, and then _slid_ a little bit more into Wyatt's mind, a feeling of intense pleasure within her. _Oh, this is going to be _so _much fun_. As she gave Wyatt more commands, Wyatt dipped her hands into her husband's blood, pooling around and in him, and began to paint a crude version of the Dark Mark on his face.

Bella stood to the side and admired her handiwork. And then she released the Imperius Curse.

Wyatt's face tensed; she blinked, realising where she was, and then she looked down and shrieked. Bella only laughed.

Ellis Wyatt had been rather messily killed; Bella had eviscerated him—slowly, painfully slitting him from the hollow of his neck to his navel while he had lain immobile under her _Petrificus Totalus_ and his eyes had screamed silently and he had gasped his last breath while Bella watched, regarding his beating heart with a sort of dark fascination. His heart, lungs, and intestines spilled out of him and onto the floor; Bella had directed his wife to put her hands in his chest cavity, which Bella had filled with his blood. The Dark Mark on his face stared up at the Wyatt woman, mocking her with its very existence.

Joanna Wyatt screamed; she seemed to have lost all reason and all sanity. Her world had exploded in front of her eyes, and now it was only her, with her bloody hands, and her husband gutted like any other animal, and the marks of his struggle in the parlour, on the walls and on the floor. Her mind broke and splintered, like a fragile glass bubble now nothing more than tiny shards.

Bella laughed.

Joanna Wyatt was still screaming when Bellatrix Lestrange, laughing a laugh of pure malicious triumph, drew out a sharp knife and, in one quick sweeping motion, cut off the woman's head.

**oOo**

The newest edition of the _Daily Prophet_ crumpled under Henry Wyatt's hands. The Auror tossed it to one side and strode out of the room. There was a strange smouldering look on his face; his eyes burned with rage and sorrow. They were not red; he had not cried when news of the murders had come in the early dark morning.

The others watched him silently as he went. Dagny bent down and picked up the newspaper, smoothing it out and looking at the front page. There was no picture accompanying the article, but they all knew that Henry Wyatt's parents had been savagely slaughtered. Disembowelled, beheaded.

Dagny bowed her head and thought, _And then the rest is silence_.

**oOo**

"Oh my," said Hermione in a small voice. "There was another attack last night."

Harry looked up from his plate, where he was slicing up a tomato. "Who?" he asked.

"_Ellis and Joanna Wyatt_," Hermione read from the _Daily Prophet_, her voice trembling slightly, "_aged eighty-six and eighty-two, respectively, were murdered last night at their home on the outskirts of Bristol_." She came to a sudden stop. "It's horrible," she finally said frankly. "They—they cut off her head! And they took out his heart and everything—while he was still alive!"

"Hermione," said Ron, turning to look at her, "_please_. We're eating breakfast, for Merlin's sake, I don't want to be sick!" He shook his head and returned his gaze to his food, but not before Harry noticed him sneaking a glance full of suspicion at the Slytherin table. Harry tried to see what Ron had been looking at, but all he saw was Malfoy, flanked by Crabbe and Goyle and prodding at his kippers with something approaching distaste.

Quietly, Harry brought a hand up to his neck. Hermione's gift, the gold chain with the rune, was around his neck, and Ron's pocket watch was attached to the chain as well. The rune and the pocket watch were concealed under the front of his robes, but he felt for them just the same. He had begun to wear both of them after the Hogsmeade incident.

_They—they cut off her head! And they took out his heart and everything—while he was still alive_!

Harry shivered, and thought of hands on the small platinum pocket watch, pointing to mortal peril.

**oOo**

I'm not quite sure if my portrayal of Bella is accurate, seeing that I've never known anyone like Bellatrix Lestrange (and hopefully never will). Dagny's thought, "_And then the rest is silence_," is from William Shakespeare's play _Hamlet_: "_The rest is silence_." (Act 5, Scene 2)

If you look very closely, you'll see a hint of foreshadowing. Shan't say where though! ;)

And after such a great day, I'd appreciate it if you could make it even better by reviewing:)

Talriga


	19. Chapter 19

See Ch. 1 for disclaimer.

Thanks to all my reviewers, and apologies for the... (looks at calendar) exactly 1 month-long wait. (proceeds to look very ashamed)

**Chapter 19**

"I told you," an exasperated Narcissa said, "to be careful. Really, do take these things seriously."

Her older sister only smiled back. "Oh, Cissy, I think it's fun." She took the bowl of murtlap essence Narcissa handed to her. "Although it's all messy sometimes."

Narcissa gave Bella a tired look. Bella hadn't been like this before, when they had been young and beautiful and the world had stretched out before then, wide and promising. Before Azkaban. Before—and her mind whispered, _even before the Dark Lord came and took her away_. But Narcissa quickly shut that line of thought off before it could continue. Instead, she sighed and rose to her feet. "Well, try and rest. Why you insist on participating in all the purges, I don't know."

Bella frowned. "Cissy, you're positively lukewarm about this. It's our _duty_ to our blood."

"I should think you already proved your duty when you went to Azkaban for the Dark Lord. Let the others go, for once," said Narcissa (forcing out the bitter tone that threatened to enter her voice), although she was keenly aware of the fact that she was probably fighting a losing battle. She knew, quite simply, that Bella _liked_ the 'purges.' Narcissa didn't. It was bloody and dirty, and, well—not for a fastidious woman like Narcissa.

"And let them ruin everything?" demanded Bella. "I don't trust any of them with such a task."

"Do you ever trust _anyone_, Bella?"

"The Dark Lord," said Bella immediately. _The Dark Lord. When did he usurp _my_ place in Bella's mind_? "And you."

Narcissa bent down and embraced her sister. "You're so distrustful, Bella," she said, amused. "I must go attend to some business. You'll be fine by yourself?"

"Yes, fine," Bella answered impatiently. "Go ahead."

Narcissa smiled and left the room, closing the door quietly behind her. As the door clicked shut, the smile dropped from her face as suddenly as it had come. She walked down the passageway, stopping to glance at an ornate, delicately wrought silver mirror that showed her face. She was impossibly weary; she could not help but worry about Draco, who adamantly refused to tell her anything whatsoever about his plans; Bella, arrogant and passionate and tending towards impulsiveness; Lucius, who now sat in dreary Azkaban. Her eyes were blue, shadowed with fear, her hair, blonde and loosely down—she had inherited her looks from her mother, Druella Rosier; the odd one out among the beautiful Black sisters. Bellatrix, Andromeda, Narcissa. Bella, Andy, Cissy. Only the one in the middle had been cut out; and the first one drifted between insanity and sanity; and the last one's only ambition now was for her family to survive. Grimly looking at her reflection in the mirror, Narcissa raised a hand and smoothed down her hair, then proceeded to the parlour.

Severus was there, waiting. He was gazing out the parlour window with an oddly pensive expression on his face. His forehead was creased; he seemed, at first glance, to be lost in his own thoughts, but he turned at once upon hearing the sound of Narcissa entering the room, and inclined his head in a gesture of acknowledgement. "Hello, Narcissa," he said, his eyes black and sharp. The very paragon of vigilance, she thought.

"Severus," Narcissa replied. "Thank you for coming. Would you like something to drink, perhaps? Tea? Some wine?"

"No thank you, Narcissa," Severus said formally. "Isn't your dear sister here as well?"

"Yes." Narcissa gave Severus a look of scrutiny; there was no way to mistake the edge in his voice. "However, she is rather… indisposed right now." Bellatrix was, of course, not particularly indisposed due to illness or otherwise, but Narcissa did not want her to know Severus was at the manor. After all, Bellatrix and Severus disliked each other, and Bellatrix was always muttering about how they couldn't trust Severus. Narcissa supposed that no-one could really trust Severus on the matter of which side he was on, for or against the Dark Lord—as a double-agent, such suspicions were nothing new—but she trusted Severus, at least, with the well-being of herself and Draco. "How is Draco? He has told me nothing of what has happened at Hogwarts in his letters, and will not confide in me."

Severus's mouth quirked, just a little. "This year, it seems, Draco has developed the habit of not confiding in anyone at all."

Narcissa said, "You told me some time ago of the Hogsmeade incident last month—"

"In which he showed a remarkable lack of cunning," Severus commented with an air of detachment. "He had the brains to get the necklace into Hogwarts, I'll give him that, but he has yet to explain to me exactly how it was to come into Dumbledore's hands. In fact, he has yet to explain to me anything."

Another time, Narcissa might have shown someone the door for saying such things about Draco, but this was Severus, and what she needed now was the truth. She watched Severus carefully with her blue eyes, and nodded to him, signalling for him to continue.

Severus did continue. "Recently, Horace Slughorn has been entertaining thoughts of having students in his N.E.W.T. Potions class take on independent study projects. They would only do so if they had a sincere interest in it—only for extra credit, mind, and he would be the one to assign them their potions. However…" He paused. "Draco has had a very suspicious increase of interest in the project."

Narcissa knew. Slytherins preferred subtlety, but now she chose to be blunt. "Poison," she said. Draco would not care which potion he would be assigned to make; he would have access to many ingredients that were hard to find, and absent from his potions kit.

Severus answered her unspoken question. "Of course, it will definitely be deployed after Christmas, if he does indeed choose to take that route. The independent study projects won't begin until January, when the students arrive back at Hogwarts."

"Then I will have some time to speak to him over the Christmas holidays," Narcissa said, and felt acute relief. _Children! As though by staying silent he can preserve me and himself from the Dark Lord's wrath_.

**oOo**

"…_mirate ove m'ha scorto empia fortuna!  
Mirate di che dual m'han fatto erede  
l'amor mio, la mia fede, e l'altrui inganno.  
Così va chi troppo ama e troppo crede_…"

Elena Granger sighed, wincing at the shrillness of the opera singer's voice, reached across the table, and twisted the dial. The high notes were abruptly cut off, and a smooth, modulated voice replaced it.

"_This is the BBC Shipping Forecast_…"

As the polished, clear-cut tones floated into the air, Elena relaxed in her chair. Listening to the Shipping Forecast was an old habit of hers, in which she regularly indulged at least once a week, early in the morning before her husband woke and the work at their dentistry practice began.

While Harry Potter's closest living relatives, the Dursleys, took a sort of supercilious pride in their normality, the Grangers were simply happy in their normality. At least, it seemed that their lives were normal. A nephew who was the Boy-Who-Lived (the Dursleys) and a daughter who was one of the aforementioned boy's best friends (the Grangers) did not make for a particularly normal life. Elena Granger, of course, did not mind half as much as Petunia Dursley did—but she still minded.

Elena Granger was a woman who had already passed the threshold of forty years of age, although she looked somewhat younger. Her face could be considered prepossessing; she had that unusual quality of appearance which had made her look old at the age of twenty, and now young as she grew older; her face had not changed with the years. Ash blonde curls pulled back in a loose bun, stray hair falling around her face, dark brown eyes always unruffled, she seemed forever calm and pragmatic, a trait which stood her in good stead with the patients at her practice. Her daughter Hermione, on the other hand, more idealistic and excitable, tended to take after Matthew Granger, Elena's husband.

_Well_, Elena amended, _she's different from both of us now_.

She pushed her chair back from the table, turning the radio off, standing up and making her way to the stove. Filling a kettle with water, she set it on the stove, preparing to make some tea. Idly, she lingered in her place, looking outside through the kitchen window and thinking about how utterly _normal_ everything had once been.

Hermione had always been precocious, she knew that. The odd occurrences and happenings that invariably always seemed to take place when she was riled up had been strange, but they had been minor enough so that she and Matthew had simply ignored them, distractedly trying to overlook numerous times events that, according to their perspective, should not happen.

Then the owl had arrived with Hermione's Hogwarts letter. Elena and Hermione had gone off to the library, Hermione eager to borrow a copy of George Orwell's _1984_; they returned home, opening the door to see a stunned looking Matthew, who pulled Elena to one side, shooed Hermione off, and whispered to his wife, gripping the creamy parchment so tightly that his knuckles had gone white: "Elena! The letter—it says Hermione's magical!"

_Elena! The letter—it says Hermione's magical_! The words still seemed to echo in Elena's mind.

So they had gone to Diagon Alley; bought her school supplies. Matthew had been just as thrilled as Hermione. Elena, on the other hand, had not been quite sure as to how she ought to respond to this sudden revelation.

She listened as Hermione excitedly expounded upon the wonders of this new wizarding world; but after reading some of the history books herself, she rather sourly thought that there was really nothing different about the society—they had the same prejudices that existed in everyday life (the _Muggle_ world, the authors of the books wrote, with a sort of condescending tone that Elena could imagine perfectly), a justice system that she personally felt to be somewhat crooked (the legislative body, the "Wizengamot"—they didn't have an ethics committee, did they?), and that the only thing they could really do was wave a stick and make things happen. She highly doubted they even knew of the existence of nuclear weapons, which could certainly do more—and longer lasting—damage than their hexes and curses and spells. But she had said nothing, keeping her thoughts to herself.

Hermione's letters home during the first few months of her beginning year at Hogwarts had been terse; at the most, she outlined how she was doing in her magical studies, never once mentioning any of her classmates, other than a few sentences obviously penned with some emotion.

_Ron Weasley was being idiotic today, as usual. If only they would work harder in class—then at least they could earn some more points…_

_Today we had Potions class again. I really wish Harry Potter—you remember him from the books, he's the Boy-Who-Lived—I wish he wouldn't get into so much trouble, Professor Snape doesn't seem to like him very much._

_I never knew wizards could be so… obnoxious. Draco Malfoy—he's a pureblood—quite frankly, Mum, he's a prat. But I suppose that prats occur, even in the wizarding world_.

_Is there any reason_, thought Elena, _why they shouldn't? Did you expect them to welcome you with open arms? Didn't you read the history books? Don't you understand? They have had their terrors as much as we have had ours. And this Malfoy boy—he's pureblood, so he calls himself? He's proud of it, isn't he? And what does he call you? And what would he call us? Dirt? Filthy? Inferior? Scum?_

_Hermione, Hermione. You're so idealistic—don't you realise it? Magic doesn't mean perfect_.

And yet even as much as she wanted to, she knew she could not withdraw Hermione from school, bring her back to the old, comfortable life. The magic had entranced Hermione, ensnared her, and Elena and Matthew were left behind.

Then suddenly, Hermione had become friends with the two boys Ron Weasley and Harry Potter. Elena had never known why exactly; only that suddenly Hermione's letters seemed to be briefer, shorter, quick mentions of her life at Hogwarts, and that year during Christmas, Hermione had come home, mind distracted from celebrations, closed herself into her room and read books. Then she had gone back; scored extraordinarily high on her exams; and came back for the summer hols.

Matthew had been elated at Hermione's success in her studies; Elena had wondered if anyone still thought Hermione inferior.

The answer to that had come during their trip to Diagon Alley in the summer, when Elena had met Ron Weasley's parents, Arthur and Molly. She had been rather exasperated with the Flourish and Blotts fiasco; that Gilderoy Lockhart had plainly been a ridiculous quack. Then they had encountered the blond man, the blond boy, in the book shop—Lucius and Draco Malfoy. Even as Lucius Malfoy and Arthur were speaking to each other, their distaste evident, she had seen how Lucius Malfoy's cold grey eyes rested upon Elena and Matthew, and had seen the condescension, the disdain, the _disgust_.

Elena had thought, as Lucius Malfoy returned his attention back to the Weasleys, _Look that way at me when I point a gun in your face and blow you up, and see if you think that way of me then_. She was simultaneously surprised and horrified; it was, perhaps, the first time she could recall actually wanting to hurt someone so badly.

In her daughter's second year, there had been a period of time when Hermione's letters had abruptly stopped arriving. Elena had no way of knowing what had happened, until a letter signed by the Deputy Headmistress Minerva McGonagall had arrived, informing her that Hermione had been petrified by some unknown creature. Matthew had been angry, making up his mind to keep Hermione at home. It had taken the entire summer during which Hermione fiercely argued to be allowed back to Hogwarts; Elena had supported Hermione (Elena knew that Hermione would return, whether they agreed or not; and so she had supported her daughter), and Matthew had given in.

That was before they found out that the escaped Sirius Black was a wizard. Hermione wrote in her letters how they were all afraid for her friend Harry.

_They say that he's after Harry, because Harry defeated You-Know-Who, and Black was his right hand man_…

When she came back after third year, Elena had quietly asked her in the car, "Hermione? Did they ever catch Sirius Black?"

She noted the way Hermione involuntarily stiffened, but didn't say anything.

"No, he's still on the run," Hermione replied, her voice steady. "But don't worry, Mum, they'll catch him."

_There's something you aren't telling me. No, not quite that—there are many things you haven't been telling me_, Elena thought, but left it at that, and asked Hermione about how her Arithmancy classes had gone.

Hermione's fourth year had seemed to be incredibly exciting at first. She mentioned the Triwizard Tournament, the first in years, in her letters home, and the schools Beauxbatons and Durmstrang. She described the Tasks, one by one, and then after the Third Task—

_Harry won the Triwizard Tournament, Mum! Isn't that great_!

But the tone of her letter, short and hurriedly dashed off, seemed rather more sober than elated.

After that, it seemed to Elena as though the wizarding world had been closed off from them. Hermione rarely spoke of magic at home, except to talk about her classes and teachers; of her friends and wizarding events, she said nothing. If Elena or Matthew asked, she only smiled brightly and said, "Oh, everything's fine, don't worry."

She knew, had always known, that the discovery of the wizarding world—that Hermione was a witch—had driven a rift between them and Hermione. But she had not thought it had gone so far so that Hermione would keep secrets from her. Important secrets.

Elena dug a hand into the pockets of her coat and drew out a crumpled piece of paper. It was a crinkled clipping from the wizarding newspaper, the _Daily Prophet_, and the date was from the month of July. Elena had found it stuck between the floorboards in Hermione's room; it had obviously fallen there and gotten stuck. Otherwise, she supposed that Hermione would have thrown it away, if only to keep her parents from knowing what was happening in the wizarding world.

_YOU-KNOW-WHO GATHERING ARMY OF INFERI_

_By Rosamund Darnley, _Daily Prophet _reporter_

_Recently, the increasing number of appearances of Inferi have alarmed the magical community. Since the Inferi were known to be used by You-Know-Who before_…

She set the article on the table and glared at it, her lips set in a thin, hard—above all, angry—line. Pity she didn't have an owl with her; Hermione didn't write very much anymore either. She would have to talk to her daughter, face to face; over the Christmas hols, she decided. _It is time, I think, that Hermione offer an explanation for keeping us in the dark—not telling us of the danger in the magical world—and why we should not know_.

**oOo**

The music Elena Granger is listening to in this chapter is from Ariadne's _Lament_, as set by Monteverdi. The translation is roughly as follows:

"… Look where this cruel destiny has brought me!  
Look what pain I inherited from my love,  
My faith, and the deception of others.  
This is what happens to those  
Who love too much and believe too much…"

I took the names of Hermione's parents Very Loosely from Greek mythology, in which Hermione was the daughter of Helen and Menelaus of Sparta. I tweaked the moniker of "Helen," and cast around for a male name beginning with "M"—and Matthew seemed suitably English enough to me.

**IMPORTANT NOTE:** This chapter is late, I know. (ducks rotten fruit) My family's been busy moving, as I said on my livejournal, and so life's been hectic in general. As in: lack of computer access, lack of Internet access, lack of time, and sometimes lack of inspiration. Not only moving, but next week I'm going to a summer camp/conference of sorts in Washington D.C. and New York City that will last for nearly two weeks—so there will also probably be a lamentable stretch of time between this chapter and Ch. 20. (ducks more rotten fruit)

However, as reparations for the slow updates, I've posted two other HP stories in which readers may be interested: _The Moment of the Yew-Tree_, a short ficlet I wrote for the omniocular livejournal June challenge (characters: Tom Riddle, Slughorn, Dumbledore); and the first part in a 4-part fic _Falls the Shadow_, a post-HBP fic that is sort of a final-battle-afterworld-redemption-resurrection-renewal-etc story in which Snape and Harry finally come to a sort of peace--it's the fic I work on when I have writer's block. For some odd reason, I chose to write both of them in first person POV and present tense. I hope you, my good reader(s), have liked this chapter, and will like the other two stories as well.

As always, please, please review. :)

Talriga


	20. Chapter 20

See Ch. 1 for disclaimer.

I know that it's been a while since I updated. I did warn everyone that there would be a "lamentable stretch of time." Um, I didn't lie. :(

School has started with a vengeance. I'm now in eleventh grade, that year of AP classes and standardized tests (PSAT, SAT II, more AP...), and homework has descended upon me like a ton of bricks. I will try not to have such long intervals between updates--I'll try to stick to monthly updates--but please be aware that there is such a thing as real life. Unfortunately, real life can be very busy. :(

That said, thanks to my reviewers, and please enjoy!

**Chapter 20**

Harry pushed his messy black hair out of his eyes; took off his glasses and rubbed the lenses with the sleeves of his robes. He placed them back on his thin nose and adjusted them. "Good practice, everyone," he said amiably. "If we keep this up, we'll do well at the next match. Next practice is Friday, see you all there."

As the other Gryffindor Quidditch players dispersed, Ron and Ginny flanked Harry on both sides. "Where's Hermione?" asked Ginny. "I mean, she's usually in the stands watching during practice."

The Boy-Who-Lived shrugged. "I think she said that she had to talk to Slughorn about some pet project of hers."

"I can't believe she likes Slughorn," muttered Ron. "I mean, he is such a—a—"

"Opportunist," Ginny said pertly. "Of course you wouldn't like him, I suppose, since you didn't get invited to his Slug Club. He does tend to ignore others, but I like him. He's really quite amusing, in a way."

"And you would," Ron said. "But Hermione thinks it's boring."

"That's what she _says_, of course," Ginny replied, "but I rather think that she doesn't mind it so much anymore."

"_What_?"

"Oh, just look at it from her point of view, won't you? She's a Muggle-born with no existing connections in the wizarding world, and here's her chance to create some. Slughorn invites lots of his old students to the parties, and Hermione needs it."

"Whatever," Ron said. Leaning towards Harry, Ron whispered into his ear, "Can I borrow the Map and your invisibility cloak, by the way? I need them for something."

Harry nodded. "Sure," he said out of the corner of his mouth. "What for?"

"Nothing much," was the hasty response, but Harry saw the tips of Ron's ears going red, an indication of discomfort and uneasiness. "Well, I won't pry," Harry quickly said. _Ron must have a girlfriend_, he thought. _Wonder who she is? Oh well, I won't ask him if he doesn't want it to be known_. "They're in my trunk, at the bottom."

"Thanks, Harry." Ron then said, more loudly, "Wait, I didn't finish the Transfiguration essay yet. Bye Harry, I've got to work on that."

"But you told me that the essay was due a week from now!" yelled Ginny after Ron's distant figure. "Hmm," she said to Harry. "He's probably got other stuff to do. I've seen Lavender Brown looking his way more than once—don't suppose he's doing some snogging?"

"Lavender Brown?" Harry winced. "I wouldn't want her to be my girlfriend. Ugh, that doesn't bear thinking about."

"Ron has more sense than that," Ginny said; thought for a moment. "I think."

"You have too low an opinion of your own brother," said Harry. "How was the last Defence class with Snape?"

"Actually, it's bearable," Ginny answered, a tinge of faint surprise in her voice. "Better than Umbridge, although I've got to admit that that isn't too hard to beat. It's not like he snaps at us all the time. We've been working on the Patronus—everyone from the D.A.'s done really well with it, especially after your teaching us."

"Yeah, I remember the lesson," said Harry, and did not say he also remembered that at the end of that particular lesson, a series of events involving an informant, a Weasley brother, an incompetent Minister of Magic, and a singularly odious Ministry-appointed Defence professor had led to Dumbledore's departure from the school. "Did you manage to summon one before?"

"No, I didn't," said Ginny. "But now I can. I love it—it's this incredibly adorable horse. It went right up to Snape and nudged his shoulder, and oh—you should've seen the look on his face! Of course, he took five points off—he said I'd told my Patronus to do that, but it was worth it." She smiled. "I imagine you didn't have any trouble with yours."

Harry nodded. "Our class just took a break from nonverbal spells to do the Patronus. It wasn't that bad. But guess what? Malfoy's Patronus turned out to be a sheep!"

"A sheep?" Ginny laughed out loud at that. "Oh, so Malfoy's really a sheep in wolf's clothing! A blessed Baa Lamb!"

"Well, it's a mountain sheep, what they call a Barbary sheep," admitted Harry, reluctant to spoil Ginny's fun. "So it's got some wicked horns, and none of that fluffy wool. But still, Malfoy looked all angry and everything. I expect he thought his Patronus was going to be a dragon or something like that."

"From his name, I suppose," Ginny said. "Draco, dragon—I think it's Latin. Did Snape show his Patronus?"

"No," Harry said. "He just told us the incantation and think of happy thoughts, and then he stalked around the room and yelled at people. What about your class?"

"The same," said Ginny with a sigh. "Pity—I'd have liked to see his. He did tell us it was a cobra, though."

"Oh, damn," Harry replied cheerfully. "I was hoping it would be a large bat." He grinned. "He _is_ like one, swooping about everywhere."

"Except he isn't blind."

"But he's got echolocation, right? Sort of in a way. He's always out after curfew, patrolling the corridors, and—" Then Ginny clapped a hand over Harry's mouth and pulled him behind a bush.

During their walk, they had strayed very close to the Forbidden Forest; now, through a tangle of leaves, Harry saw Snape emerging from the Forest silently. Then a twig crackled, and Harry stared as a centaur came into view, not quite out of the Forest, but his face half in, half out of the shadows. Next to him, Ginny stifled a gasp.

"—there is a barrier there that we cannot cross," said the centaur gravely, light grey eyes glinting as light filtered haphazardly through the foliage, falling upon his face in spots and spatters. "Since you can—that would be due to his presence of sorts, though." His voice rose and fell in steady, even cadences, like ocean waves rolling gently upon the beach. He seemed oddly familiar.

"Unfortunately," Snape replied, a sardonic touch to his voice. However, it was less acidic than it might have been, less scornful and mocking than when he spoke to his students. He was more informal than Harry had ever heard him be. "And I can't risk it now, not knowing what safeguards are in place. I do not have enough time."

"Over Christmas?"

"Busy with other errands."

"For both?"

"Yes."

The centaur did not inquire as to what kind of errands, much to Harry's secret disappointment. "Summer, then?"

"Perhaps then." Snape shifted. "I don't like delaying it, though. It's not helpful, Lahir."

_So the centaur's name is Lahir, then_, thought Harry. A sudden flash of insight came to him. That night in the Forest, surrounded by centaurs… "_Lahir Cahadhwy, I was not aware that you were so hostile to those who would seek refuge in the forest_…" Recognition struck him like a lightning bolt. He stiffened a little; Ginny gripped his wrist as he involuntarily twitched. Lahir—Lahir Cahadhwy. _That_ centaur. _What is Snape talking to him about_?

Then Lahir spoke, but it wasn't in English. It was a strange, lilting melody, that Harry had only heard once before, like a silvery sigh of the wind twirling amongst the trees. Snape didn't say anything; his body became more rigid, but he only nodded; then turned and left, walking slowly across the Hogwarts grounds.

In the tense silence that followed, Harry could hear his own shallow breathing, the faint crackle of leaves on the ground.

"What was that?" Ginny said as they remained behind the bush, her words coming out in a sudden rush of breath. She shivered; Harry did not know if it was from the cold, or if it was from her apprehension, plainly visibly upon her face.

Harry heard a twig snap under pressure nearby.

"It is something, but it is not for you to worry about. Not right now," someone said simply, and they both turned around to see the centaur behind them. Ginny's brown eyes widened as she stared at him. Seeing that Ginny was momentarily speechless, Harry said, haltingly, "I—I know you. You're Lahir—Lahir Cahadhwy. From that night."

"Yes," said Lahir Cahadhwy.

Ginny mouthed at Harry, "_What night_?" Harry shook his head, trying to communicate to her that he'd tell her later. Instead, he asked, "What was—Professor Snape saying?"

"He," the centaur said, "has a terrible burden. Terrible and great. You should not have listened."

Harry opened his mouth to say something, then closed it. He had the nagging feeling that Lahir Cahadhwy was undeniably right. Ginny, flaming red hair streaming down her back, looked the Lahir in the eyes. "But why shouldn't we know?" she asked softly.

"For many reasons," Lahir Cahadhwy said. "But perhaps, most of all, because young foals do not yet know how to forgive—because young foals can be impetuous in their actions." He leaned forward. "I knew that you were listening," he said quietly. "Professor Snape sensed that someone was listening. So—do not remember." A gentle breeze came, whipping the dried up fallen leaves around them. Harry and Ginny gripped each other's hands tightly, as the figure of the centaur seemed to recede into the distance… were those stars he was seeing? But night had not fallen yet, but Harry was sure that he could make out the starry pinpoints—and yet they seemed to be rushing upon him with a shocking suddenness that made him want to jump back, only he couldn't—he was held there by some strange, unknown magic…

… they stared into the Forbidden Forest. Harry's mind felt muddled. What had just happened? Someone was holding on to him. He looked to his side. Ginny was still blinking, looking confused; her cheeks ruddy from the wind. They jumped apart, looking at each other. Harry rubbed his eyes. "What was here again?"

Ginny was frowning. "I think—I thought I saw something moving over here. Nothing, really. We ought to get back to the castle, though—it's almost time for dinner." She had regained her usual cheerful disposition. "I'll race you there." Not waiting for Harry to reply, she sped off.

Harry ran after her. "Hey! That's not fair, you got a head start!"

"Too bad for you then!" Ginny called back. "Ladies first!"

As the two Hogwarts students sprinted towards the school, Lahir Cahadhwy watched them go, nodding to himself. _They will remember—they will remember when the time is right_. Then he turned and, his hooves softly clip-clopping upon the forest ground, moved into the depths of the forest.

**oOo**

Ron placed the tip of his wand on a slightly crumpled sheet of parchment, and—after looking about to make sure no-one was within hearing distance—whispered, "I solemnly swear that I am up to no good." No-one would have seen him anyway, as he had covered himself up with Harry's invisibility cloak.

Slowly, thin, spidery lines appeared. Ron scanned the Marauder's Map until he saw a small black dot labelled "Draco Malfoy" in the Potions classroom. "Aha!" he muttered.

As he made his way down to the Potions classroom, the dot "Draco Malfoy" moved out of the room and into the corridor, seeming to stop for a moment before starting towards… Ron squinted at the map. The Slytherin common room.

He sped up a little, reaching the entrance right behind Malfoy, who said, the usual tone of superiority in his voice, "Kunna ambitio." Ron slipped into the common room of the serpent hastily, whisking the tail end of the invisibility cloak through the doorway before it closed again, and hoping that no-one had noticed a possible disturbance in the air.

To his relief, it seemed that no-one had. Crabbe and Goyle sat near the fireplace, engaged in a series of culinary experiments with a large bag of deluxe Bertie Bott's Every Flavour Beans. Pansy Parkinson was seated more elegantly in a straight backed armchair with green plush velvet cushions, idly flipping through the November edition of _Glamour Witch_, all the while shooting badly concealed glances, meant to be full of coquetry, at Malfoy. Millicent Bulstrode was half-hidden in the corner, reading through the Defence text and sporadically casting nonverbal spells on an unfortunate rat which cowered in a large glass jar, absolutely terrified; Blaise Zabini and Theodore Nott played chess at a table made of dark mahogany, and as Ron looked over the game, he had to grudgingly admire the way Nott was systematically and strategically destroying Zabini. Zabini looked very much disgruntled; Nott merely looked determined.

A few other Slytherins whom Ron did not recognise were scattered around the room as well: a second-year and a fourth-year were hotly debating Quidditch ("Don't be ridiculous, the Caerphilly Catapults are going to _smash_ the Tutshill Tornadoes in their next match!"); a seventh-year was reading the _Daily Prophet_ and underlining words with his quill, a small frown of concentration on his face; a first-year was alone at a small round table, working on an essay. Ron noticed that her wand lay next to her essay, close to her hand, and that she seemed oddly tense—her shoulders were stiff and the line of her body straight with a sort of wariness.

He recalled the last time he had been in the Slytherin common room. It was distinctly unlike Gryffindor's, adorned with red and gold and big comfortable armchairs. There was a certain air of coolness to this room, decorated tastefully and not ostentatiously in green and silver. Still, Ron was put in mind, not of a place where friends could gather to chat and fool around, but of a place where alliances were made and broken. More like a meeting room than a substitution for home.

Malfoy sat down next to Pansy Parkinson, who seemed utterly thrilled. "Hello, Draco, how're you?" she trilled lightly. The airy, flirtatious tone was somewhat ruined by her pug nose, Ron thought with a sort of malicious delight. He silently sat behind the chairs, checking that the invisibility cloak covered all of his body, then turned his head slightly to watch Malfoy, who would no doubt betray something of his criminal plans by his words, his actions, the expression on his face.

The blond Slytherin, however, only looked rather bored as Pansy Parkinson prattled about what had happened during the day to her. "—and Morag MacDougal fell into the lake. They say she was climbing up into one of the trees, for what I don't know, probably some silly little bet, and then she got all soaking wet and had to be taken up to the infirmary. Isn't that just positively ridiculous?"

"I suppose so," said Malfoy. His face was rather blank; his voice showed a marked lack of interest. He stared up at the ceiling.

Pansy Parkinson bravely forged on, despite the glaring fact that Malfoy wasn't even looking at her. "And by the way, where _did_ you go, Draco? I couldn't find you anywhere."

"To talk to Slughorn," Malfoy replied shortly. "About the potions project he's got going for after Christmas break."

"Really? That's smart of you, Draco. Extra credit, then?"

"Partly."

At that, the girl looked more intrigued. She leaned closer and lowered her voice; Ron paid full attention. "Partly? Why else?"

"I don't see why I should tell you," said Malfoy, his voice sharp. "A certain access, is all. But I wouldn't want you to go chattering about it all over Hogwarts—your mouth is big enough as it is."

"I like to talk, perhaps, but I'm not indiscreet," Pansy retorted. "And if I were to carry something out, I certainly wouldn't be clumsy about it. Just a word of advice, you see."

Malfoy narrowed his eyes at her. Pansy Parkinson only smiled sweetly at him and leaped lightly to her feet. "I'm off to dinner," she announced with a rather regal air. "Are you coming?"

"No thanks, Pansy."

"As long as you don't starve yourself, mind," she replied tartly. "I expect to see you there in the Great Hall, eating along with everyone else."

"I notice you haven't specified how much I'm supposed to eat," commented Malfoy dryly.

A small smile blossomed on Pansy Parkinson's face, to Ron's own surprise. What was so wonderful about Malfoy's quip anyway? "Touché," she said, and departed for the Great Hall.

As soon as she had left the Slytherin common room, her seat was taken by Theodore Nott, fresh from his victory over Zabini at chess. He almost trod on a corner of the invisibility cloak, nearly giving Ron a heart attack from fear that he would be revealed and treated accordingly as an intruder by the Slytherins.

"Lo, Malfoy," he said.

"Lo, Nott," Malfoy greeted him.

The thin boy, all arms and legs, folded himself up compactly in the chair and looked curiously at Malfoy. Without a diplomatic introduction, he started off, bluntly, "How is everything going, by the way?"

"Why should you ask?" Malfoy said, his voice low.

Nott's voice was just as low. "Because Dumbledore's got to know that there's something suspicious going on as it is," was the soft rejoinder. "And I don't like you having to do it."

Malfoy let out his breath in a soft hiss. "You think you'd be better at it, then?"

"No," said Nott. "Just a note of warning, though—I don't think it'll come out in your favour, whether you succeed or not. You realise that, do you? Your father's in prison, you see."

"And?" Malfoy snapped. "What exactly does my father have to do with me?"

The corner of Nott's mouth quirked up. "Well, he is your father," he said. "That's obvious. But your family's lost all its influence with the Ministry too, and quite frankly, _he_—" Nott's voice left no doubt in Ron's mind as to who "he" was "—doesn't need you as much. Haven't you thought about how unlikely it'll be that everything will go all right?"

"You don't sound particularly loyal, Nott." Malfoy's voice was menacing. "I'm surprised your father told you about it."

"Perhaps not," said Nott. "I'm being realistic. So you know, Malfoy—it's a double cross. You'll never get it done. Keep your options open. You see, I don't like seeing my House ruined in any fashion. See you at dinner."

And with that rather strange conclusion, Nott got up swiftly. Ron thought, _It's almost time for dinner. I'd better get back before the others start wondering where I am_. Following Nott closely, he stepped out of the common room quietly, flashing a quick glance back. He saw only Malfoy's tired, wary face before the door shut behind him.

In the silence of the corridor, Ron bundled up the invisibility cloak and stuffed it into his robes. He paused, about to go straight to dinner, but—

_A certain access, is all_. Malfoy, caustic in tone, cool in words. Ron tilted his head to one side, frowning.

Access…

Ron decided to take a different route on his way to the Great Hall. He turned and left for the Potions classroom.

**oOo**

The password to the Slytherin common room, "Kunna ambitio": "Kunna" is Old Norse for "to know," "ambitio" is Latin, implying "ambition." If anyone remembers the Sorting in Ch. 13, they may notice a cameo by Evaline Schuhmacher in the Slytherin common room, the tense young first-year.

I'm pleased to announce that this fic has been nominated in the time-travel category at the Harry Potter thematic awards—The Sorting Hat. The voting session will be from the 18th of September to the 2nd of October, and I'd appreciate it if readers could go to the site to vote for this story. A link to the site is in my profile. Thanks go to whoever nominated my fic; I feel very, very happy. A very appropriate birthday gift, in fact. :) Yes, my birthday's today, September 8. (big smile) I'm now fifteen. I think I'm finally beginning to catch up to my 16- and 17-year-old classmates. ;)

Hope you liked it, and please review!

Talriga


	21. Chapter 21

See Ch. 1 for disclaimer.

Thanks to all who have reviewed:) Hope you enjoy this chapter.

**Chapter 21**

The glow of the sunset fell upon the House tables in the Great Hall, breaking against the walls and brightening the faded stones with a golden sheen, before the sky slowly crimsoned, and then the sunlight went from its overlying colours, of gold—to red—to grey—before shades of blue and black fused together to create the setting for the coming dusk.

Candles now hovered, suspended in the air, casting their warm glow on the students and teachers at dinner. If Harry had remained outside longer than he had, he would have felt the biting cold of the chilly wind, signalling the coming of the winter snows. If allowed inside, the November gusts would have no doubt blown out the lighted candles. As it was, Harry was reaching for a roll when he turned towards his friends as they came to the Gryffindor table, their words nearly lost amid the chatter that permeated the Great Hall.

"—I'm surprised," Hermione said. There was, indeed, a tinge of surprise in her voice.

"What's so surprising?" Harry cut in quizzically.

Ron's face was stubbornly set. Hermione said, "Ron just signed up for Slughorn's extra credit potions project." Harry's eyebrows shot up. "Why'd you go and do that?" he asked. "I thought you said you didn't like Slughorn."

"I can't help it if I don't!" Ron burst out. Harry noticed that his ears had gone a nice shade of red. "Er—Mum says I've got to get good marks this year, and, well—it's extra credit. It's not like it'll take too much time."

Harry saw Hermione shooting Ron an exasperated look. "Ron," she began, "why do you think it's called extra credit? It's _supposed_ to be hard.."

The black-haired boy intervened at this point, having foreseen a brewing argument once again. "Who's signed up for the project?" he asked casually.

Her attention diverted by this interruption, Hermione said, "Oh, let me see—well, Ron here, me, Ernie Macmillan, Su Li, and Malfoy. Not really that many. But let's not bother with that—do you know what Slughorn's letting me do?"

"What?" asked Harry, in a tone which seemed to say, "Frankly, this bores me, but I'll pretend to be interested for your sake."

"Rememorari!" Hermione said happily.

The word plainly did not make any impression on the two boys whatsoever. "Rememorari?" Ron repeated. "What kind of a name is that?"

Sitting across from them, Ginny said, raising an eyebrow, "Pot calling the kettle black, Ron. Really, _Bilius_? What kind of a name is that, Ron?"

"Shut it, _Ginevra_."

"At least hers sounds pretty," Hermione said pointedly. "But then I suppose you wouldn't know bile was originally considered in medieval times one of the four basic humours of the body which caused anger—though it seems you certainly have enough of it."

"All right, all right!" Ron raised his hands in a gesture of surrender. "You win! So what is this Remem—Rememorari stuff anyway?"

"It's a sort of memory potion—"

"So it improves your memory?" Harry asked.

"No, it's a potion that enables you to remember things that have happened that might be sort of blurry in your mind. Like, for instance, your two-year-old birthday party. Some imprint of that event will be left in your mind, even if you can't form it into a clear memory, and Rememorari takes that imprint and rebuilds the memory. And it can break through memory charms, too." Hermione's face glowed with barely concealed excitement. "And Professor Slughorn's _letting me do it_!"

If Hermione had had the personality of Parvati Patil or Lavender Brown, Harry supposed she probably would have squealed. As it was, she was eating her dinner so fast that it was almost certain in his mind that she was going to go to the library.

And within a few minutes, Hermione did exactly what Harry had expected her to do: announce that she was going to the Hogwarts library.

"Big surprise there," mumbled Ron as Hermione raced off. "Barmy in the head. And," he added, his voice suddenly defensive, "why couldn't I do the project as well? I mean, it's not like we're terrible at potions."

Ginny coughed meaningfully.

**oOo**

_He stands within the raging maelstrom, and marvels at the destruction it brings. A terrible storm, and a wolf, gleaming the colour of jet, hackles raised and the animal snarling, revealing its sharp teeth._

_The glass glitters under his feet, a fragile crossing, and then it shatters, and then he falls. Down, down, down…_

"_Nice to see you again." A crooked smile, danger and anger grinning out of a boy's face that shouldn't know of such things—not when he seems so impossibly young. "But don't bother with this. You won't succeed, in the end." Danger and anger grinning out of a boy's face. Danger, and anger, and despair._

_And the white turns to black_.

**oOo**

"I don't see what can be done," said Remus. He sat awkwardly on his bed. "How many full moons has it been? It's November now, but we don't even know what's happening, how we can do anything." His body ached, and he suppressed the impulse to rub at a long, shallow slash in his left shoulder. Bandaged, of course, but still itchy.

"Doesn't Professor Snape ever say anything?" asked the man sitting opposite him. Hai Yan-shui looked as comfortable as ever, oddly calm and nonchalant.

"Severus?" Remus said in surprise. "Oh, no, he doesn't say much at all. He's the paragon of secrecy, don't you know that? He knows things that no-one else does, really."

"Hmm," said Yan-shui. "Well…" he sighed. "How did Fenrir Greyback get you in the first place?"

The brown-haired man was silent for a moment, remembering. _Six year old Remus, holding his teddy bear. Six year old Remus, tucked into bed by his mum. Six year old Remus, dragged away by a slavering wolf with bloodlust in its eyes_. "My father had offended Greyback in some way," he said slowly. "He was an independent researcher, associated with the Gautier Institute in Paris. He was working on a research project dealing with werewolves, and Greyback heard about it. The research wasn't even anything with adverse effects upon werewolves—but Greyback… he probably didn't like people 'interfering' with him…" _Phelan Lupin rocking bloody Remus in his arms, saying, "Oh Merlin, that bastard, why did he have to target _you_…" And his mother, Brenna, who wiped away the dirt and blood and tears from her little boy's ravaged face with a wet cloth and kissed his forehead and said, "I love you_."

Remus blinked. "Well, Greyback has attacked for less. And you?"

"Just me being utterly foolish and outside at the wrong time," Yan-shui said lightly, but his face belied his flippant tone. "I tell you, I'll be very glad to meet good old Fenrir Greyback a second time. After all, we both have unfinished business with him, don't we?"

Remus nodded. "Yes," he said after a momentary pause. "I suppose we do. I'll probably meet him sooner or later—you must have heard that he's allied with Voldemort, in Britain."

Yan-shui nodded. "I have. Speaking of which, how _is_ the situation in Britain? I haven't heard much since that tragic Halloween attack. On the parents of one of your Ministry's senior Aurors, no less." His face was solemn, sharp with a hint of anger. "And I've heard since about the—details." Eyes dark with fury. "Utter sacrilege."

Remus said, slowly: "I'll be honest with you—I'm really not quite sure. Of course there was that brief period during the summer when that spate of attacks occurred, but then it has mostly died down. There have been some deaths here and there—utterly vicious, you know, and all on civilians, like the Wyatt murders—but otherwise…" He pressed his hand against his face; he could still remember spells, flying in the air. _Expelliarmus! _Dodge behind the columns_. Stupefy! _Jump to the side_. Flipendo! _Duck down_. Crussier! _Dive to the ground. And the cry of the Death Eaters: _Crucio! _Green light_. Avada Kedavra_! "There have been no major attacks since the one on the Ministry, and that was months ago. But—I don't like it. It's strange that Voldemort should be so quiet, especially now that he's been acknowledged to have returned. It doesn't seem like something he would do."

"Unless," said Yan-shui, "he has something in the works."

"That's true," was the reply. "He certainly has the mind for it, although I wish he hadn't. He's ruined the British wizarding world."

"Well," Yan-shui said. "Pardon me for saying this, but it seems rather as though our wizarding world was already a little ruined in the first place."

"What do you mean?" But even as Remus asked the question, he could already guess at what Yan-shui would say—those words that he himself had always carried in his heart.

"The prejudice, for one," Yan-shui said. "The hatred for werewolves. The condescension towards Muggles, and Muggle-borns. The sense of superiority over other magical creatures. Those termed half-breeds?—yes, those are considered inferior by the majority of the population. Attitudes are incredibly hard to change, you see."

"That's not too hard to believe," Remus answered bitterly. "Stereotypes are so ingrained into people. I probably have stereotypes of my own," he said wryly. "I know that some Death Eaters must be intelligent and perhaps even have a little bit of emotion, but it's easier to think of them as mindless, vicious killing machines. That way, it's easier to fight against them."

Yan-shui said, "I suppose it is." His face was tired with the look of one who has seen much of human nature, and who is weary because of it. "Hatred is easy; forgiveness is not so effortless."

Remus thought of Peter, shaking with fear when he and Sirius had pointed their wands at him, and how his heart had been filled with a solid hatred that seemed to strangle his very ability to speak. He could not have forgiven Peter.

And yet Harry had decided to spare his life.

_What is Peter doing now_? he thought. _Is he planning to kill the rest of us_? Perhaps he was being too harsh. But then again, he knew that Peter now had a hand of silver.

**oOo**

At the same time that Remus Lupin and Hai Yan-shui were talking, Wang Qin, Ming-yue, and Severus sat around a small round table. Severus thought, idly, that it seemed to be a council of war. His cup of tea was cooling; he had not yet drunk from it.

_Drink it now_, said Hogwarts. _You haven't had much to eat today_.

_Don't nag, you_, thought Severus.

Hogwarts only laughed.

"Based on the premise that a lycanthrope contains two souls within one body," Wang Qin said, "we could perhaps try…. Well," and here she looked almost a little embarrassed, "exorcism."

"Exorcism?" Severus stared. " 'To drive out evil spirits'?"

Ming-yue answered, "Well, it was originally used in order to get rid of what the ancients considered evil spirits that had possessed a person. If you think of it in those terms…"

"Then the lycanthropy would be the 'evil spirit,' and a simple exorcism is all," Severus said, raising an eyebrow. "As simple as that?"

"I would not say it was simple," Wang Qin replied. "There will probably be quite a few complications, but it is not as though we have any other choices."

There was a short silence. Severus finally said, "We might as well try it."

"So that is agreed?" Wang Qin looked around the table. "Good. Now, about the process…"

**oOo**

Bellatrix Lestrange glared at Fenrir Greyback as he loped into the forest, no longer in his werewolf form but repulsive all the same. It was a pity, really, that she had to consort with _things_ like him, but they supported the Dark Lord, so they could be tolerated for now. Werewolves, in any case, were good attackers, if nothing else.

And attackers, if nothing else, could be very useful to the Dark Lord.

_Don't get angry, Bella, we'll get rid of the werewolves in the end_, said Rodolphus at her side, and then she turned her head and Rodolphus was not there. Her mouth thinned. The spectres whispered in her ears and hovered at the edges of her consciousness when she had nothing to do. They did not bother her during attacks—_and how Evan Rosier would have loved to see the Wyatts_, she thought almost regretfully—but they were there when she was not busy. She could forget they ever existed, and then they would bombard her with words, suddenly…

_I would like a stake of silver_, said Evan Rosier dreamily. _Can't you just imagine the look on his face_?

Bella could.

She heard the quiet step of someone coming up behind her and whirled, wand out. "Who is it?" she snapped, her voice harsh.

"Madame Lestrange," said a respectful voice, laced with the slightest French accent. She lowered her wand. The wizard stepped out so Bella could see him more clearly. His hair was the colour of gold, and his grey eyes stared at her with no expression. It was as though two blank ovals of grey had been set into his face, never to reflect light.

He looked rather like Evan Rosier. But then he would—Evan Rosier had been of the Anglicised branch of his family, but the main family had always had its roots in France. The Roziers lived in Nice, generally paying no attention to those who in their eyes did not merit it. Their distant relatives, the Dufays in Paris, were more liberal-minded—blood purity was not such a big issue with them, which Bella could not understand—but neither the French Roziers nor the Dufays had interfered with the Dark Lord. Now, one of them had indeed joined the Death Eaters. Bella was not sure why—but then she did not question her Lord—and so Francis de Rozier had become a Death Eater. Bella had been pleasantly surprised to find that he was a good one. He did not question orders, respected her authority, had brains, and didn't mind getting rid of the impure.

At least another Death Eater around here besides her had his mind in the right place.

"Rozier," she said.

"Madame Lestrange," he said again. "Coleus Yaxley asked me to bring this to you, to take to the Dark Lord." He held out some papers to her. She took them with a raised eyebrow. Yaxley, silent Yaxley—although he would suddenly say a lot at times… good, Maurice Boynton had been disposed of. And his information was the last thing they needed for their plans. The sheaf of papers was the information the frightened Boynton had undoubtedly stuttered out before he died, and what they had found in his house. She wondered if the Ministry had realised what they were planning to do, and then dismissed the thought. The Ministry idiots never knew anything.

She smiled. Rozier said nothing. "Good," she said. "This will be enjoyable." Her face showed her satisfaction.

Rozier bowed his head slightly, and stood aside as Bella swept away. In her mind, Rodolphus and the others laughed in anticipation of what was to come.

**oOo**

"Crussier" is Anglo-Norman, referring to "crush"; this mild Crushing Curse can sometimes cause concussions.

"_At least another Death Eater around here besides her had his mind in the right place_." Some irony, considering you cannot really say Bella has ever had _her_ mind in the right, sane place.

(coughs) You can still vote for this story at the Sorting Hat awards until October 2. Link's in my profile.

Now, I'm not sure when the next update will be. I'll try to get it out by Oct. 31 (Halloween!), along with the second part of _Falls the Shadow_, although I can't guarantee the update of the latter, as WT is still my main story. Please review! Feedback makes authors happy. :)

Talriga


	22. Chapter 22

See Ch. 1 for disclaimer. 

WT didn't win in the Sorting Hat awards, not like I really expected it to, what with all the great time-travel fics nominated as well :). The honor went to Sam Vimes's _Cartographer's Craft_ and (honorable mention) S'TarKan's _Harry Potter and the Nightmares of Futures Past_, two stories which really deserved it. I encourage everyone to check them out; they're great examples of time-travel stories, with a quality of writing which many of us can only dream of. :)

Also, everyone, ignore my previous statement about getting Part 2 of FtS done. I've just decided to revamp all of what I've written—6000-odd words so far—and considering it's hard enough to find time to write WT, it's even harder to find time for FtS.

But I'm almost absurdly pleased with this chapter. It's twice as long as my normal length. I hope you like it. :) Thanks to all my reviewers!

**Chapter 22**

November passed into December, and the snow came in torrents from the sky.

Severus, standing in the library, looked out through the windows, windows decorated with ornaments of delicate white frost. He had just finished his rounds around Hogwarts, patrolling the corridors. It wasn't that hard—Hogwarts usually pointed out, helpfully, any miscreants that were sneaking around: to take food from the kitchens, to steal things from professors' offices, or—if not those options—usually engaging in romantic skirmishes.

Young witches and wizards—they were so ridiculous at times, so unaware of the conflict that raged outside of Hogwarts.

Severus did not think he had ever really been young.

The soft, faint light played across the snow, in spotted patches here and there. He turned away from the window, then looked back. He could see, on the horizon, small rosy tendrils snaking out and burning a trail through the cold sky. Dawn.

_You haven't slept at all tonight_, Hogwarts said in disapproval. _Really, do have some regard for your health_.

_It's not like it would make a difference_, murmured Severus. He smoked, his face a mask of calm. The habit came and returned at times, although he noticed that he did it most when his mood was especially dark. He was surprised, really, that he didn't crave it as much as he used to, back in the past-future (future-past?). But maybe it was because he was surrounded by familiar things, Albus and Hogwarts and stern old Minerva—even Sirius Black, who was always ready to take offence at one of Severus's taunts.

He wondered if Black would laugh at the idea that he was amused by him. He was contemptuous, of course, and scornful, and sneering towards him—and everyone else promptly took that as hate. Not that, really. It was only that Black couldn't think ahead, couldn't plan and strategise very well (_Going with Potter to King's Cross in his _unregistered_ Animagus form—what kind of a fool did that_?). Black would never be a good chess player.

Black predictably led to Lupin, and his mind twirled and sped off on a new train of thought. Exorcism—a good theory. He marvelled that it hadn't been thought of before. And yet it had admittedly carried such a Muggle connotation with it that he supposed any wizard or witch might have dismissed it as "just another one of those Muggle things."

_Muggles aren't forever inferior and wrong, you know_, Hogwarts said gently.

I_ know that_, Severus replied. _The thing is, does anyone else? The Muggle Studies class is such a farce… although it's something in our favour, sometimes_. He thought of the gun which lay unused in his rooms. His fellow Death Eaters probably scoffed at Muggle weapons, but _Protego_ was a shield against magical spells, a shield that couldn't stop a bullet. They wouldn't have known what hit them, until it was too late.

But in any case, they had an advantage with exorcism. It seemed that Wang Qin's unwanted ability to see souls, for all that it had once distracted her and was now ignored by her, could be of some help after all…

_The process of exorcism is very general as to how it should be performed. Each exorcism depends on the circumstances. However, it is highly advised to have three people besides the possessed person participate in the exorcism, because three is one of the magically powerful numbers (the other being seven)_.

The books had been somewhat helpful. They didn't exactly specify as to what would happen in the exorcism; rather, they pointed out facts that might facilitate the exorcism and—not exactly ensure—but at least make more great the possibility of success.

_The first would be the main exorcist, the one who ventures the deepest in order to fully carry out the exorcism. The second and the third would be those who retain control of the overall space in which the exorcism takes place, also involved in the final destruction or banishment of whatever the possessor is_…

He finished the cigarette and let it fall to the ground, carefully stepping on it to extinguish the barest flicker of a flame. It left a faint trace of black on the floor of the library, something that might have caused the librarian an aneurysm—but then again, Irma Pince need never know.

_Severus_. Hogwarts mentally prodded him. _A little bit of news for you. Gillian West and the rest of her bookmaking cartel are in one of the empty classrooms, balancing their accounts and discussing new variations on magical contracts_.

Severus nearly smiled. Gillian West was one of the few Hogwarts students not in Slytherin whom he actually almost liked. She could've been in Slytherin, he had said wryly to Filius Flitwick once. She was almost like Horace Slughorn in some ways, although not quite so blatant about it—establishing her own network in Hogwarts, of patronage and contracts and favours.

(She had died, too, in the war. She had pulled in allies from all levels of wizarding society, through glib persuasion and contractual force, and finally been killed by Bellatrix Lestrange. At least it had been a quick death, not prolonged torture.

Not like Filius Flitwick, head of her House—who had suffered and went on fighting in the Hogwarts battle, until someone had struck him with a blood-boiling curse, and he went down. The Death Eaters had not been averse to giving Severus gory details of the demises of his former colleagues.

_Do not think of it_, he said to himself. _That is past_. But the past of the once-future was always there, anyway, hovering in his consciousness.)

_At least they're using their time wisely_, he said blandly, and nothing more.

_Also—apparently, Eleanor Branstone and Laura Madley have just discovered the wonders of the Hogwarts kitchens and the numerous denizens there. I know you must do your duty, but try not to terrify them_.

_I don't _try_ to terrify_, Severus replied archly. _I just _do.

He tilted his head to one side, contemplating the number of points to be deducted from Hufflepuff House—

—and his Dark Mark flared to life on his left forearm, underneath his robes. _Damn it_, Severus thought with annoyance. _Why now? Has he no concept of proper sleeping patterns_?

_Hypocrite_, Hogwarts said. _It's hardly as though _you_ have a proper sleeping pattern, Severus. I should say it's because he likes to catch people off guard, and most people don't function well when they're supposed to be sleeping_.

_Thank you for stating the obvious_, he retorted. _That is _exactly_ why I do not have a proper sleeping pattern_.

He thought briefly about telling Albus before leaving, but dismissed the idea. It was probably one of those routine meetings where the Dark Lord tried to pick his brain for information. The last one had been after the Wyatt murders, and he had simply reported, in a bland tone of voice, that Albus and Potter had regular meetings in Albus's office, and no, he did not know what they discussed—which the Dark Lord had mocked as planning sessions—"_But they cannot defeat me_," he had said, leaning forward, face twisted into a smile.

He left the library, Hogwarts checking to make sure that no-one was watching him, and walked through the corridors until he got outside. He stepped carefully in the snow, carefully shaking off snowflakes that stuck to the edges of his cloak and casting a heating charm on himself. It was when he got to the borderline area where Hogwarts grounds ended and the Forbidden Forest began—where the anti-Apparition wards stopped—that he conjured up a mask, fitted it over his face, and Disapparated to Castellum Serpens.

There was the faint sensation of the wards around Castellum Serpens as he did so, and then he was there, standing outside the great old edifice. The Dark Lord had connected his awareness to the wards of Castellum Serpens (much like Severus had done with Hogwarts, only that Castellum Serpens was not sentient). He could monitor who came into Castellum Serpens, who came with the Dark Mark on their arm; could set down anti-Apparition and anti-Portkey wards at once (Thank Merlin, Severus had thought more than once, that the Dark Lord could not actually monitor the Death Eaters' movements within Castellum Serpens, only the wards around it; otherwise he would have long since been dead.). Albus had never tried to ask where it was; there was a tacit understanding between them that if the Order attacked Castellum Serpens, the Dark Lord's suspicions would fall so heavily upon Severus that his position would be compromised—and in any case, what would they gain from it? The Dark Lord's forces scattered, hard to find. At least now, they were all gathered in one place.

Severus pushed open the doors and strode in. It was dark, as always—he paused as his eyes adjusted to the darkness, without the benefit of much light. Strange, not many of the others were up and about. Unless this was a special meeting, and not a general gathering?

_Maybe he wants to see you alone_, Hogwarts suggested.

Severus caught sight of another Death Eater, coming forth to meet him, and inwardly sighed. _Sadly, no. Look, here's mad Bellatrix. She doesn't seem very pleased to see me. Not like I'm thrilled to see her_.

"Snape," Bellatrix said, her voice stark and cold with dislike. "Our Lord wishes to meet with us both, to discuss… something." The tone of her voice implied, with a touch of malice, that she already knew what they were to discuss—while he knew nothing.

"Very well, Bellatrix," Severus replied, and added, "Take me to him," as though Bellatrix were nothing but a common house-elf.

Bellatrix's eyes narrowed, but she turned and walked off, Severus behind her.

Hogwarts said, delicately, _Well, I see her feelings towards you haven't changed at all. She still doesn't like you_.

_Better that she doesn't like me due to rivalries than hatred due to suspicions of my loyalties_, Severus said. _But I have always had a terrible enough reputation among the Death Eaters_. He smirked.

_You just love to put the fear of yourself into people, don't you_, said Hogwarts with a sigh of resignation.

Bellatrix led Severus past the entrance hall and into one of the many corridors that twisted around Castellum Serpens. She came at last to a large, plain door and knocked quietly. "My Lord?" she called.

"Enter." The Dark Lord's voice pierced through the wood like an arrow, swift and sharp; Severus checked his Occlumency shields.

As Severus and Bellatrix stepped into the room, the door swung shut behind them. The Dark Lord sat in an armchair by the flickering fire, the back of the armchair rising up over him and throwing its shadow upon the ground. The two of them knelt briefly; he nodded, and they rose.

"My Lord," said Severus carefully and cautiously.

"Sit," the Dark Lord commanded, gesturing to some nearby chairs.

They sat.

Severus bowed his head. "I am honoured to be called by you, my Lord. What is it that you ask of me?"

The wizard who sat before him lifted his head and looked at them both. His eyes were the usual chilling red, the red of blood—_of his victims in the past, and in the future_, whispered his mind—and when he spoke, his words fell like shards of ice on Severus's ears. "To listen," he said. "And to obey." He turned to Bellatrix. "Tell him, Bellatrix."

Bellatrix looked like she'd swallowed a lemon, or even ten, and after a spasm of annoyance—and was that _jealousy_?—struggled across her face, she said, a note of protest in her voice, "But, my Lord—"

"Do you question me?" The Dark Lord sounded softly ominous.

"No, my Lord, no!" Bellatrix seemed shocked at the very idea. "But I did not think Snape had to know."

The Dark Lord stared at Bellatrix, who looked down and then faced Severus, a sulky look on her countenance.

Severus's interest was piqued, painfully curious. Bellatrix never wanted Severus to know anything, so that was no surprise. But what was it, anyway?

"My Lord," began Bellatrix with an air of grandiloquence, "wishes to strike a mighty blow against our enemies. Here." She handed him some papers, covered with crude drawings.

He glanced down at the papers. They were drawings of a squat building, with concentric circles radiating out from the center, and it was a sliver of a moment before Severus blinked and said, attentively, "I see," while Hogwarts hissed in his mind.

The circular building was the wizarding prison of Azkaban.

_Should have expected it_, he said quietly to Hogwarts, who sounded rather worked up about it, muttering a series of phrases unpleasantly directed at the Dark Lord. _It was always a question of sooner or later, and it seems the Dark Lord has decided on sooner_. He supposed it was because the Dark Lord's ego had been offended by the monumental—and very flashy—failure of his attack on Hogsmeade, all those months ago. And he did need more of his followers. Yes, it would be. And he thought of the sporadic murders that had started up again after Halloween. _The Wyatts—they were the parents of Henry Wyatt—a senior Auror at Azkaban. Zilla Arwood—girlfriend of Fitzwilliam McKay. Maurice Boynton—the gatekeeper. The bloody _gatekeeper_. And the others…_

_Did the Dark Lord think that they might've been told something by those at Azkaban? Is that why they were targeted?_

_And Boynton was the _gatekeeper_, who knows what he might have screamed about before he died_?

"You wish to free our brethren then, my Lord," he said calmly—or, at least looked calm, although on the inside his mind whirled at this new factor. "A worthy fight, in order to grant them the honour to serve you."

The Dark Lord smiled. Severus's response had pleased him.

And Bellatrix grudgingly, warily told him the rest.

Severus nodded, and listened, and complimented the plan; and thought of ways to undermine it.

**oOo**

"Azkaban," Albus said flatly.

"Yes," replied Severus as they watched his memory rise out of Albus's Pensieve. Bellatrix Lestrange's voice rang out, and another crease appeared on Albus's already lined forehead.

Albus sighed. "Unfortunate," he said, handing Severus a cup of tea. "Rufus Scrimgeour is not inclined to think in terms of how vulnerable Azkaban might be—more like how many prisoners he can throw into it…"

"Stan Shunpike, the idiot," Severus muttered.

Fawkes trilled in agreement.

"Bellatrix Lestrange told me what they would do once they were inside the prison," continued Severus. "She didn't tell me how they were going to enter the prison, though. They must've learned something from their victims—I hadn't heard anything about this until now, and it seems most of the others are unaware of it as well. The Dark Lord told me specifically because he wanted me to cause some—oh, misdirection, you know—and also I suppose it's a test, of sorts."

_A test_? Albus looked alert upon hearing this. "He suspects you?"

Severus raised an eyebrow. "He suspects _everyone_, Albus"—_Well, yes, that _was_ true_, Albus admitted to himself—"and I feel it's just another of those things he does to assure himself of my loyalty. Nothing important."

"You're sure?" Albus pressed, an undertone of worry lurking in his voice.

"Yes, I am," Severus replied. "I checked around with Legilimency a little—I didn't sense any vibes of anger and blatant suspicion."

"Still," Albus murmured, "he could have kept it hidden…"

"Now you're just being paranoid, Albus."

"Says you," the old wizard retorted. _You're the one who's paranoid about Draco Malfoy. What happens must happen. I'm expendable, I'm old—but you're not_.

"Says me," Severus agreed, apparently unaware of Albus's present thoughts. "Now, the real problem is what to do about Azkaban? You can't increase the security suddenly around the prison—that would only raise the Dark Lord's suspicions about the remarkable coincidence, you see, and it wouldn't be particularly helpful to my position. As I said before, not many Death Eaters know about it, and I'm the only one who is regularly in contact with you." He said this with a rather dry tone in his voice.

"Well, I suppose there is no way to prevent an attack," mused Albus. "Perhaps we could minimise the damage? Send in an Auror from the Order who knows about the impending attack, and know what to do to counterattack once it begins."

"Only one person?"

"Percy Weasley can only do so much to tweak Auror scheduling discreetly, Severus, without being found out."

"True." Severus paused, a glint of wariness coming into his eyes. "Albus, who are you going to choose?"

"I was thinking," said Albus cautiously, "of Nymphadora."

"Tonks? That klutz?" Severus nearly dropped his tea cup. "She'll just trip over everything, and destroy the security wards while she's at it!"

"Now, now, Severus, have some patience…"

**oOo**

It was a little harder to morph these days, thought Tonks tiredly. Probably it was because she was so worn out by Dawlish's ridiculous demands for forever occurring patrols around the Hogwarts area. Not like it had stopped incidents such as the Bell and Rosebay fiasco. Proudfoot had been incensed about that. "_The nerve of those people! Trying to do all that_—" His tirade had continued with rather more forceful language. Tonks had ignored him, and ordered a butterbeer from a strangely dull-looking Madam Rosmerta.

Still, Dumbledore was waiting. So she squinted at her reflection in the mirror, closed her eyes, and concentrated. When she opened her eyes again, her hair was shoulder-length dark brown.

_At least it's better than the mousy brown_, she decided. Her mirror tutted impatiently. "Dearie, you look fine. I don't see why you should worry quite so much about your abilities—"

"Because," Tonks said shortly as she surveyed herself, "they come in handy for Auror work. And it's difficult for me to morph, and I think I'm going to demand leave from Dawlish for Christmas, because I'm tired. I'm not about to stay in Hogsmeade the entire time in the freezing cold and snow."

"But dearie—"

Tonks glared. The mirror, which had become used to Tonks's constantly changing appearance over the years, sighed but didn't continue.

She smoothed back her hair and went to the fireplace in her flat, throwing some Floo powder into the fire and calling out, "12 Grimmauld Place!"

After the disorienting whirl of sound and colour, she toppled out of the fireplace at the Order headquarters and promptly stepped on Remus Lupin's foot, who yelped. "Oh, I'm sorry, Remus!" she said rather hastily as she quickly moved.

Remus turned to face her and smiled good-naturedly. "It's all right, Nymphadora," he replied, emphasising her first name rather pointedly.

Tonks winced at that. "Tonks, Remus, say _Tonks_," she said, a note of suffering in her voice. "There's no need to punish my clumsiness by saying _that_ abomination. How've you been? I don't think I've got to see you much, except for meetings."

"Passing well, passing well," Remus said vaguely, the corners of his mouth quirking up briefly. "Besides Voldemort and Fenrir Greyback, of course. I'm beginning to think I ought to have infiltrated his pack now…"

"And I'm glad you decided not to," Tonks said firmly. "Delusions of grandeur, I suppose, but I don't want you in any kind of contact with Greyback. I'm glad you were selfish then and decided not to. It's nice to be selfish now and then, you big bad wolf." The last phrase was said with affection. She patted him on the shoulder. "For the good of the cause, as they always say."

Remus grinned, undoubtedly amused. "Indeed." His smile disappeared. "Although, after the Montgomery child…"

"Don't." Tonks heard her voice cut sharply in the air. "You wouldn't have had access to Wolfsbane, so it would've been hard to control yourself anyway. At least Snape's making Wolfsbane for you—you couldn't have got it if you were with Greyback."

For some reason, Remus's face twisted slightly. "Oh yes," he murmured. "Yes, I do get Wolfsbane every month, don't I?" The moment passed, and he continued, "But anyway, what are you doing here? I'd have thought the Aurors were working you down to the bone."

"I managed to squeeze some free time out of it all—escaped from my terrible slavedrivers," Tonks replied lightly. "Thought I'd come and visit." She carefully omitted the fact that Dumbledore had asked her to come to 12 Grimmauld Place, although for what purpose she did not know (A visit to Hogwarts involved walking from Hogsmeade to the school, going inside, walking through the corridors, and being seen by a great deal of people. It meant _lack_ of discretion, and discretion was what Dumbledore had wanted, undoubtedly, in asking her here.). "Where's Sirius?"

"Trying to decorate already," came a hoarse voice from the door. Tonks turned and saw Sirius, with a box of ornaments in his arms. "Christmas is soon, you realise that? Harry's coming here." His face lit up with a kind of happiness that sent a pain into Tonks's heart. Azkaban had taken so much from him, so that even his happy moments inevitably took a trail to the darkness.

"Yes, I heard," said Tonks, hugging him. "What are you getting him?"

"I don't know yet," said Sirius. "I could see if there's any more of James and Lily's stuff in my vault…" he trailed off with a wistful expression.

"I think the best present for him would be to just have a good time," said Remus quietly. "The both of you."

Tonks smiled at him brilliantly. Sirius nodded. "That's true," he said, his voice lighter than usual. "Butterbeer, Tonks?"

"I don't know," said Tonks uncertainly. "Who else is here?"

At that, a scowl crept over Sirius's face. "Snape," he said brusquely. "And Dumbledore. In the library. Snape's sitting there reading, and Dumbledore's doing whatever he always does."

"Really?" Tonks's curiosity was aroused. "You don't suppose I could go say hello to them? I haven't seen them much either."

"I'm sure Professor Dumbledore wouldn't mind," Remus commented, a wry smile on his face. "Although Severus might."

Tonks said, decisively, "I think I will. Who cares what Snape thinks? He always disapproves of us anyway, so it doesn't really matter. And anyway, I need to talk to Dumbledore about the Auror guard around Hogwarts." An easy lie to say. _If Snape's here… hmm. Must be something more important than I thought it would be_.

"That's the way to talk!" Sirius grinned. "Go on and barge in on them. Have fun!"

Tonks waved to them and went out through the doorway. Her idea of having fun wasn't exactly visiting a large, morbid house with screeching portraits, but… well. At least Walburga Black was silent, for now. She pushed open the library door and went in. The door shut behind her, and she heard the lock sliding back into place.

She looked up to see Snape lowering his wand—he must have been the one to lock the door, she realised. Another flicker of his wand, and silencing wards sprang up around them. Dumbledore rose from his seat and came forward. "Nymphadora!" he said quite warmly. "Good to see you again. Tea?"

"No thanks," she replied. "So what is it that you wanted to talk about, Professor Dumbledore?"

Snape turned his face calmly towards hers. "The Dark Lord's plans, of course," he said coldly. "What else would there be to talk about? Christmas decorations, for instance?"

Tonks's mouth thinned slightly; her bangs momentarily fell into her eyes, and as she brushed them away she noticed that the brown colour of her hair had darkened to black.

"There's no need for that, Severus," Dumbledore said mollifyingly. "Please sit down, Nymphadora. Now, we have some new intelligence which seems to suggest that Voldemort will attack Azkaban sometime soon, and I was hoping that you might consider agreeing to take on duties at Azkaban for the Order." He beamed at her, as though he had just stated that he liked sherbet lemons. Except that an airy "Voldemort will attack Azkaban" had taken its place.

Tonks stared. _Trust Dumbledore to spring surprises like this on me_! "Why haven't you told anyone else then?" she demanded. "We need to keep it from happening!"

"That is a bit of a dilemma, though," Dumbledore said, still maddeningly calm. "You see, if such a thing were to happen, Voldemort would be immediately suspicious of Severus here—" he nodded to Snape "—and it might compromise his position. It's a very fine line here, you see?"

Tonks looked at Dumbledore, loath to speak, but she did. "Yes, I do see. Then what can we do?"

"This is where you come in," Dumbledore said. "We will tell you all the information that is known of the prospective Azkaban attack, and you will go to Azkaban for your Auror duties. When it is attacked, you can use your knowledge to minimise the damage and casualties. That is—it seems to be the best way…"

The Metamorphmagus wished the Order could just simply ambush the Death Eaters during the attack, but then—she glanced at Snape. _What does Snape really do for us? He gives us the information, but we can't even act on it. Blowing his cover, my arse. He does a better job of feeding misinformation to the bloody Death Eaters than he does finding out information for us, unless that was his purpose in the first place. It must be easier for Dumbledore to verify his reports of anything than You-Know—Voldemort could ever do, what with him being hidden away_. But she pushed away her feelings of annoyance, and only said, "How do I get reassigned? And why me? Why not Kingsley?"

"We have an agent within the Ministry bureaucracy who will change your guard assignment. You do not need to know who it is." Snape leaned forward, his dark eyes glittering; when he spoke, his voice was dry and precise. "Kingsley Shacklebolt already has a prominent assignment with the Muggle Prime Minister, and as a higher-ranking Auror, it would be more obvious if he were reassigned to Azkaban. On the other hand, you, as a more junior Auror, could easily be reassigned without too much suspicion, and possess enough of a brain to not completely botch things up—although the same cannot be said for your ability to move," he added caustically. "Therefore, you are the least worst of the choices available to us."

_Ow. "Least worst" of the choices—he just couldn't say "best," could he? Then again, to him I'm just the last resort_. "Fine," she said. "I'll do it, if necessary." _For the good of the cause, as they say._

… _Maybe I might meet Aunt Bellatrix_.

All of a sudden, the prospect of an Azkaban attack seemed a lot more personal.

"So what is it that I need to know?" she asked.

Snape spread out a map of Azkaban on a small, rickety table. "Azkaban is composed of nine concentric circles," he said impersonally. "Of course, the Dark Lord's objective is the one at the very center, here." He set the tip of his wand upon the parchment and traced around a marked circle. "The high-security section, where the Death Eaters—and suspected ones—are. It's divided into two semi-circles with corridors that lead to the center of Azkaban before out into the outer rings. Section A and B, each with five Aurors. You'll be assigned to Section A," he added.

"Why Section A?" Tonks said. "Why not B?"

"Because," said Snape, as though she was unusually slow in grasping this concept, "there is a vacancy in Section A."

"An Auror in Section A has unfortunately encountered some spell damage," said Dumbledore more gently.

Snape sneered. "He was experimenting with different variations on scrying spells to look around Azkaban, and evidently one of them somehow triggered the wards, so he suffered the backlash." He smiled, a smile of cool amusement. "Unfortunate for him, but fortunate for us. You're taking over Owen Zanar's position, short-term, until he recovers. Not exactly life-threatening for him, but it means a few weeks in St Mungo's. And by then, Azkaban will probably have been attacked."

"You're sure of the time?" Tonks watched Snape warily, wondering if she should expect a look which implied she ought not to ask, or maybe a flicker of contempt and anger—emotions which, it seemed to her, Snape possessed in vast quantities—but she saw nothing but a single purpose, a cold concentration.

"The Dark Lord has a preference for… _distinction_," said Snape, his eyes shuttered and blank. "Significant deaths, significant artefacts, significant dates. Yule is the winter solstice, the twenty-first of December, and then there is Christmas. It is a good thing that he is predictable about _this_, at least. He revels in the magical significance of Yule—and of course everyone's mind is on other things at Christmas. Like _presents_." He said the word in a strange tone, as though he did not really understand it. _How many presents _does_ he get_? Tonks thought. "And Christmas trees, and _carols_."

"God rest ye merry hippogriff…" Tonks sang softly under her breath. Dumbledore heard it and beamed indulgently. Snape heard it, and did not seem pleased, although for a moment—Tonks blinked. _Was that a smile I saw? Or maybe it was my imagination. No, it was contempt, definitely. A smirk. Not like Snape _smiles_. Wishful thinking on my part_. "So, anyway," she said hastily, "what exactly can I do then?"

"The freeing of the Death Eaters is the main objective, as I said," Snape replied tersely. "So, if the Death Eaters penetrate deep enough into Azkaban, you will have to dispose of those in the cells."

_Kill_, Tonks's mind supplied. _Get rid of them for good_. It was odd, really, how the idea struck her as—cruel. _But they were cruel to others_, she argued with herself.

She wondered if she would ever be able to cast the Killing Curse—if she would have the hatred necessary for such a deed. She wondered if she really wanted to know.

"Otherwise"—and Snape's voice cut into her thoughts—"your main task is to get as many Aurors out of Azkaban as possible, alive. Azkaban is only useful as a prison with a reputation; the Ministry has other obscure prisons tucked away in places which they can utilise. The building is of no use; the people within are important. The Death Eaters must be killed. The Aurors must get out of there alive. Let the Ministry consider it a loss, for all I care. The Ministry is idiotic. It needs what fighters it can get, and we cannot lose Aurors in a suicidal battle. Although," he added, and cast a critical eye over her, "there is some doubt as to the quality of those Aurors."

Tonks did not bother to retort; Snape, in any case, would continue to make little remarks like that anyway, and probably would be able to render her incapable of a witty, sarcastic reply. "Very well," she said simply. _Since the Death Eaters are probably going to put up anti-Apparition and anti-Portkey wards_… "You don't mind if I nick some brooms from Hogwarts, do you, Professor Dumbledore?"

"Not at all, Nymphadora," said Dumbledore, his eyes twinkling at her. "Not at all."

**oOo**

For clarification: Exorcism as portrayed in this fic is a mishmash of different religions' perceptions of exorcism. I know that some religions do not support the idea of exorcism (i.e., Sikhism), and I don't mean to offend. (Being such an explosive subject at times, religion is, I think, something best left alone. Although sadly that seems to be quite impossible nowadays.) However, the concept of exorcism—banishing a spirit from someone's body—happened to fit in very well. The spirit in this case is lycanthropy, which was, after all, originally a soul twisted by wild magic experimentation, and which has been passed down through the centuries. (Poor Remus Lupin…)

On Azkaban: I have noticed many fics in which practically every attack is a surprise attack. However, I contend that Snape must still know some details of what is happening, if not every plan. From HBP: (Narcissa Malfoy) "_… you are the Dark Lord's favourite, his most trusted advisor … will you speak to him, persuade him—?_" It can be concluded that while the Dark Lord does not exactly have "favourites," Snape is clearly high enough in his councils so that Narcissa hopes Snape might be able to influence the Dark Lord. Thus, it seems plausible enough that Snape could be informed of the main plans of some attacks—if not the details—and thus inform the Order as well.

Of course, how to deal with attacks requires some skill of balancing and such. He is still not always informed—i.e., Hogsmeade—but that would be because the Dark Lord would rather Snape not be there at all, and not involve him (also because the Dark Lord _has_ to keep all his Death Eaters guessing as to his view of their loyalties). On the other hand, Snape is somewhat in the know about Azkaban because it is a big enterprise, he is one of the more highly-ranked advisors for said big enterprise, and, in the Dark Lord's eyes, he can quite bluntly misdirect and say the attack's somewhere else—for example, Diagon Alley—then say, "Well, the Dark Lord must not trust me so much then," when the attack does not take place at Diagon Alley and instead at Azkaban, and thus Dumbledore would be more worried about his position among the Death Eaters and work to protect him from everyone's suspicions (Dark Lord, looking smug: _So wonderful when your enemy does the work for you_.).

And frankly, I feel the idea of surprise attacks can be tedious after a while. I already employed "surprise attack" for Hogsmeade, but the trickier ones are where they _do_ know something about the plans, but sometimes not everything, and are forced to work around it. This is the category into which the Azkaban attack falls.

Now that that long-winded author's notes is over, please review! I'd like to know what you think of this chapter.

Cheers,  
Talriga


	23. Chapter 23

See Ch. 1 for disclaimer. 

Would've got this up sooner, but FFN's document manager was acting up again. (glares) 

Anyway, RL is _terrible_: piano competitions coming up in early January, and I _really_ need to practice that 27 page long Grieg piano concerto (yes, it's 27 pages, Grieg just _had_ to make it that long!); SAT II this Saturday, more specifically U.S. History, and I have to study and do practice tests; applications for governor's school, part of which needs to be turned in soon; and school in general, with lots of homework and tests--calculus makes me sigh in frustration, while chemistry makes me want to hit myself. 

If it says anything about my life, I wrote this entire chapter over Thanksgiving break, in five days. The entire thing, when I could find some time to sneak writing in, between piano and SAT II and calculus homework. Didn't manage to write a single word of it before then. But... I'm still alive and writing and trying to stick to the chapter-a-month goal I set myself; I'm not going to put this story on hiatus--it irritates me to no end when other writers do that, and I don't want to start doing that. 

RL, stop torturing me. You're turning into Bellatrix Lestrange. 

I suppose everyone would rather read the chapter than my complaints. ;) Anyway, happy belated Thanksgiving to everyone! And thank you to my reviewers! 

**Chapter 23**

Harry woke in his bed to the sound of singing.

"_Hark how the bells, sweet silver bells, all seem to say, throw cares away_…" And then another voice joined in, Lupin's matching tenor to Sirius's baritone, exultant and bright. "_Christmas is here, bringing good cheer, to young and old, meek and the bold_…"

He smiled into his pillow, still drowsing a little. He had come to 12 Grimmauld Place the day before, for the Christmas hols, and he already felt as though he would like to stay there forever, with Sirius and Lupin and the rest. He much preferred this to Slughorn's Christmas party, which he had attended with Luna, and Hermione had come with Ron. Somehow, Malfoy had managed to cut in, Snape had hauled him off, and then Ron had disappeared from his sight. He and Luna had found Ron later, listening to Trelawney's dire predictions with a distinctly exasperated expression on his face; Harry had not asked where Ron had gone off to, although he had noticed him glaring at Malfoy from time to time. It had been a singularly dull party; Slughorn's many enthusiastic remarks did not hold a candle to Sirius's carols.

_I ought to get up_, he thought to himself, but didn't move, not yet.

"… _One seems to hear, words of good cheer, from everywhere, filling the air—Oh how they pound, raising the sound, o'er hill and dale, telling their tale_…"

With a wistful sigh at the loss of warmth, he threw off his covers and sat up. Quickly pulling a jumper over his sleeping clothes, he slipped downstairs and came to the kitchen entrance. Harry tilted up his head; he could smell breakfast.

"… _On on they send, on without end, their joyful tone, to every home_…" Lupin's voice broke off, leaving Sirius's voice foundering in surprise. "Harry, come on in. What are you doing, standing out there?"

Harry blinked and entered the kitchen. "How did you know I was there?" he demanded. The three in the kitchen—Sirius, Lupin, and Tonks—had been sitting with their backs to him; now they turned around in unison.

"Ah." Lupin tapped the side of his nose with a knowing air and winked at him. "Just my spectacular sense of smell."

Sirius coughed and slid a plate piled high with food over to Harry. "Tuck in, Harry. Tonks, are you going to be staying?"

Tonks, who was precariously balancing her chair on its two back legs, brought the chair down with a loud _clack_. "Not much longer, I'm afraid," she said. "Then I'm off to work, and then I have my guard duty for the night. I won't be able to come to the meeting this evening." Her hair was black, her eyes were grey, and when Harry looked up from his breakfast to look more closely at her, he nearly started in surprise. He had never met Bellatrix Lestrange in person—had only seen her picture in the papers, and then Dumbledore's memory in the Pensieve—but Tonks looked like what he remembered her to be as a younger woman defiant in the Wizengamot, all black and grey and forceful looks, and an untouched beauty later wasted by Azkaban. "Where's your guard duty again?" Harry asked. "I thought it was Hogsmeade."

Tonks shook her head. "It _was_ Hogsmeade. I've been transferred to Azkaban momentarily, because one of the Aurors got in an accident, and Gawain Robards thought better to have more Aurors at Azkaban than less, and anyway Dumbledore's at Hogwarts, so he decided Hogsmeade could spare a person." _Oh_, Harry thought. That explained her appearance, he supposed, what with Bellatrix Lestrange on the loose. She paused, a small sardonic smile on her face. "Of course, I was delighted. It's a very cheery place."

"About as cheery as my mum," muttered Sirius.

Lupin said, "By the way, Harry, Molly said they'd be coming over today, so you won't be stuck with us old men."

Sirius straightened up abruptly. "I'm not old!"

Lupin pretended to think for a moment. "Oh, I'm sorry, Sirius. You're not old, you're far too immature to be old."

Harry snorted into his bacon, coughing slightly. Sirius threw him an indignant look. "And my own godson makes fun of me," he sighed. "Anyway, Tonks, be careful in Azkaban. I mean, especially since you're in the high-security level—"

"Where the Death Eaters are?" Harry interrupted, wondering.

"Yeah," Sirius said, his eyes dark with their shadows of memory. "I was in that level. Used to hear the other prisoners moaning and screaming all the time when the Dementors came, and then of course I had to change into Padfoot. I doubt it's the same with the Dementors gone now, though. They keep their minds and don't go insane, Tonks. You have to watch out for that."

"Don't worry, I know what'll happen," said Tonks. "You know what? Just look at the irony—an Auror's getting advice on guarding Azkaban prisoners from an escaped Azkaban prisoner. I think Robards would have my head, the nice badger he is," she added rather irreverently. "But I'd better be leaving right now—I need to file some paperwork." She shuddered a little and added, as if her tone were not enough to convey her feelings about it, "I _hate_ paperwork," as she got to her feet.

"_I_ liked the paperwork at Hogwarts," said Lupin.

Tonks rolled her eyes. "_You_ got to look at your students' essays and make fun of their grammar and spelling. Of course you would like it, you're allowed to let loose your inner devil then and criticise to your heart's content. I do that, I'm cited for insubordination."

Lupin grinned at her. Harry had the sudden impression he was looking now not at Professor Remus Lupin, but Marauder Moony. "But you aren't coming here for Christmas?"

"Azkaban duty then."

"That's crazy," Sirius said. "How can you miss Christmas?"

Tonks shrugged. "I'll manage. Just don't drink too much firewhisky—I don't want you getting drunk." She threw a handful of Floo powder into the fireplace and with an inaudible murmur of her destination, vanished.

"She didn't even give me time for a reply," Sirius sighed. But Harry was looking at him, eyebrows raised. "Firewhisky? When did that start? I don't remember you doing that."

"That's because he drank while you weren't here," Lupin said out of the corner of his mouth. "I had to yell at him for some time before he stopped, just after the Ministry attack. You notice that he seems much more sober now, Harry?"

"He would also like to register the complaint that Mr Moony is talking about him as if he weren't here," Sirius said pointedly.

"You should've seen him when he moped," Lupin went on. "Inclined to go on for ages."

Harry tried to suppress a smile. "Good thing you put your foot down then."

"I need to do that more," said Lupin musingly, looking at Sirius, who slid down in his chair with a look of resignation on his face. "It's rather fun, and you need it anyway. It's hardly true to say that you are mature in the first place. Lily always said that about you."

"Lily was too serious all the time," Sirius said.

"I think she would've had good reason," said Lupin.

There was a momentary silence. Harry looked between the two men apprehensively, before finally breaking the silence with a question. He still remembered his thoughts on the Hogwarts Express, all those months ago: …_ you've never asked about her, you've only asked about your father_… "So, uh—what was my mum like, anyway?"

Sirius and Lupin exchanged looks as if asking each other, _Why is he asking about her now_? Sirius sat up and smiled in reminiscence. "Fiery temper. She was a _fighter_, by Merlin. Before she started going out with James—well, you should've heard the awful rows they had in the Gryffindor common room. She thought James was an idiot, until around seventh year when they had to work together as Head Girl and Head Boy. Then she found he could take responsibility sometimes, and her view of him changed for the better."

"She was quick," added Lupin. "She used to snipe rather clever insults at James, and she liked to experiment with magic. She thought chaotic magic was fun and useful, and she took over the running of the Potter estate after they got married—she oversaw all the transactions and contracts and such, since James didn't have a head for that kind of stuff. And she loved Charms. Charms and Potions. Those were her favourite subjects."

_Might as well ask_, thought Harry. "I heard from Professor Slughorn that she and—Snape were Potions partners. How'd that happen?"

A scowl blossomed on Sirius's face. Lupin still seemed superbly unruffled, although a look of understanding stole across his face. No doubt he thought the awkward change in subject was because of what he must think Harry thought of Slughorn's remark, especially taking into consideration the animosity between Harry and Snape. "Because they were the best ones, of course," he said. "I wouldn't know—none of the Marauders were in NEWT Potions—but they managed to not sabotage each other, I think. Even then, they weren't on particularly good terms, I think. Especially after the incident in fifth year." He inclined his head a little.

"Oh." Harry realised what Lupin must be referring. "You mean the—Mudblood insult?"

"What do you think?" Sirius said, glowering at the far wall as if the far wall were Snape. "She fumed for the rest of the day, and snapped at James when he tried to talk to her for the rest of fifth year. What do you think?"

_I don't know_, Harry thought with a vague sense of irritation. How was he supposed to know? _Although I thought she was angry about more than just the insult, now that I think about it… Just letting my dad do all that stuff in the first place, and I thought she was almost amused by everything, until the insult, and then she blew up—not at Snape, but at James… it didn't seem like she'd known Snape before that, just more that she was "doing the right thing"_…

He shrugged. "I don't know." There was really only one person he could ask about that, but it wasn't as though Snape would let him ask, and he didn't really want to. "I was just wondering…"

Sirius's face softened. "You should know more about them," he said. "Didn't Petunia ever tell you anything?"

Harry snorted. "Other than telling me they died in a car accident and that they were fools? Nope."

Lupin sighed. "Hagrid told me you had a photo album," he said. "He owled me about it a while back, asking for pictures. Why don't you bring it down, and we'll tell you some stories?"

"Oh!" Sirius looked hopeful. "I'd like to see that."

Harry jumped up eagerly. "All right, I'll get it," he said, and hurried out of the kitchen and up the stairs.

Back in his room, Harry pulled out the photo album he had treasured ever since Hagrid had given it to him at the end of first year. As he turned to go back downstairs, his eyes fell on the pocket watch and golden charm—his birthday gifts from Ron and Hermione—he'd put on his bedside table before going to sleep. He paused, then walked over and put the golden chain around his neck, flicking the pocket watch open.

Ron's hand pointed to "sleeping," Hermione's and Snuffles's to "eating." He thought, _Tonks in Azkaban. That's got to be terribly depressing_. "_Clocca adere Tonks_," he said out loud, and watched as another small hand formed on the face of the watch, reading "Tonks" and pointing to "travelling." Then, thinking of the two Marauders waiting downstairs, he did the same for Lupin.

_Just in case_.

He closed the pocket watch, letting it settle against his skin, and left the room, his spirit still light as he thought of his parents' pictures.

**oOo**

Hermione's favourite part of Christmas was, without doubt, decorating the Christmas tree. (Although opening presents came in a close second.)

"One day til Christmas," Matthew Granger said cheerfully as he brought in another box of ornaments, cradling it carefully in his arms. "We're a bit behind on the decorating, I've got to admit."

Hermione, towering over her father as she stood on a stool to reach the top of the tree, squeaked as the box bumped her in the back of her leg, instinctively reaching for her left arm to make sure none of the ornaments that she had hung from it might slip off. "Ow! Watch where you're going, Dad, all right? And that's what you always say—we're a bit behind on the decorating."

"Well, look at the Pemberleys across the street," her father said. "_They_ got their lights up two weeks ago. We don't even bother."

"I'd rather you stayed inside anyway, it's freezing out there," said Elena Granger, standing off to the side. She had been turned into a tinsel-hanger of sorts; the glittery material covered her shoulders, and she looked almost comically worried as she turned to inspect the state of the ornaments. "Good, these aren't broken. I'm always afraid they will be."

"I'm not that clumsy, Elena," Matthew said, and leaned over to kiss her on the cheek.

"You're clumsy enough to run right into me, hmm?" Elena raised an eyebrow, but didn't move away as her husband tilted up her chin.

Hermione grinned, turning away, and slid off another ornament from her left arm. She had heard many times the whimsical tale of how her parents had met—of how a young Matthew Granger, running at full speed in haste to get to his next class, had collided with Elena Cavendish and sent their belongings flying everywhere.

_I'll put the angel… let's see… between the silver mirror and the dove, that'll do_, she decided, and looped the thread onto the evergreen branch, taking care not to disturb the other baubles. There was the little white cloth rabbit which her grandmother had passed down to her, and there was the glittery snowflake she'd made in primary school when she was eight. She caught a glimpse of red and green as she leaned to the right—the holly decorations, set around the windows.

There was a momentary silence behind her, full of implications. Hermione tried hard not to giggle out loud, and instead said, suppressed laughter in her voice, "Oh, Mum. Dad. If you want a good excuse, you can just hang lots of mistletoe all over the house."

And a pause. "Hermione, what did you think we were doing?" her mother's calm voice floated over to her.

"Nothing," Hermione said brightly. "Nothing at all." _Snogging_, she thought rather more bluntly in her mind.

"Uh-huh," came her dad's voice. Hermione heard some shuffling. "Come down the ladder when you're done, Hermione, there's hot cocoa in the kitchen. Elena, I've got to go buy some brandy for the snapdragons."

"I thought you were supposed to get that some time ago," Hermione said.

"Well, I'll just get it now," said her father with a tinge of embarrassment in his voice. Hermione hung the last ornament she had on the tree and stepped down the ladder.

"I shall never know how you and I managed to make our practice so successful, what with your procrastination," Elena said. There was a faint smile hovering on her face.

"Make sure you drive slowly," Hermione said. "And be careful—of the ice," she quickly tacked on, having noticed the strange, inquiring glance her mother gave her. Her parents didn't need to know about the Death Eaters, she thought. They might panic, and pull her out of Hogwarts. She didn't want that to happen.

She heard the slam of the car door, and then saw through the window the family car pulling out of the drive. "Hermione? Here's the hot cocoa your father mentioned."

Hermione blinked and turned around. Her mother stood there with two steaming cups. "Thanks, Mum," she said.

Elena Granger nodded in reply; her dark brown eyes watched Hermione disconcertingly. "Sit down, dear," she said abruptly. "I want to hear about how you're doing in school."

_Er_… "Everything's going quite all right," Hermione said, smiling at her. "The Potions Professor, Horace Slughorn—you remember that Professor Snape teaches Defence now, right?—he's given us the option of an independent study project, for extra credit. You're supposed to pick a really hard potion to brew, and he approved my proposal."

"That's nice." Her mother smiled, but her face seemed so calm and unmoved that a small seed of uncertainty grew in Hermione's mind. "And your friends? Harry and Ron? I hope you've already got their Christmas presents picked out."

Hermione sipped her hot cocoa. "I have," she said; then added, upon seeing Elena's inquiring look, "I gave them books."

"Books—" A flash of amusement passed over her mother's face. "I'm sure they'll appreciate the academic help."

Hermione thought of the books—_One Hundred Hexes One Needs to Know_, for Harry, and _On Applying Duelling Strategies_, for Ron. "Yeah, it'll definitely help them," she said.

"And how is the magical world right now?" her mother asked. She added, "You see, we never get to see each other much now, and I just hope everything's going all right. I hardly had the chance to ask you this summer, since you left for your friends' houses. We've… drifted apart." Her voice was almost wistful.

"Everything's fine," Hermione said in a light voice. "There's been a bit of a political fight, and a new Minister of Magic was elected, but other than that it's been rather peaceful."

She looked at Elena. There was an odd half-smile on her mother's face, and in that moment Hermione knew that she did not believe a single word Hermione said. "Rather," she repeated politely. "I suppose this must be old news then. I wish you'd told me about this sooner, though." She leaned forward and handed Hermione a crumpled piece of paper.

Hermione looked, and inwardly winced. If the large banner of the _Daily Prophet_ emblazoned across the top of the article was not enough of an attention grabber, the moving pictures below it, with the Dark Mark hanging in the air and frightened looking wizards and witches gathering underneath it, were. _YOU-KNOW-WHO GATHERING ARMY OF INFERI_, the title of the article read. "Um," she said, and stopped; she had no idea as how to get out of this situation, and she doubted her mother would let her off easily. _Damn_.

"An army," said Elena. She enunciated each word crisply and clearly, and they fell like icicles and shattered as they reached Hermione's ears. "Of… Inferi. And apparently these 'Inferi' are—moving. Dead. Bodies." She stopped after each word, her eyes watching Hermione.

Hermione moved uncertainly under her mother's watch. "I can explain it," she said hopefully, but all the castles in the air which she had built seemed to dissipate even as she spoke. _Now they won't let me go back to Hogwarts, they'll pull me out—but wait. I'm of age. I'm seventeen_. She seized upon the thought and held it close to her, as though trying to block out the sceptical whisper of, _But that's only in the wizarding world_. "Really, I can." Her words were empty, devoid of meaning. She knew it, and she was sure her mother did as well.

"I'm sure you can," her mother said, and the lack of sarcasm in her voice only made Hermione ever more hyperaware of the undercurrents of meaning running in the conversation. "I hope that the situation was settled, although those magical officials appear to be panicky, and don't know at all what to do," she added, looking at the picture. "And all these mentions of You-Know-Who—Hermione, I have read your books on the history of the wizarding world, and I would like to think that I am not a fool. If this Dark Lord of yours was defeated the first time only after decades of terror, I'm surprised he's been taken care of in only a few months. Also, this references many other—" She allowed a pointed pause, before continuing, "—incidents that have been attributed to this You-Know-Who. Like the collapse of the bridges, and several murders. Which you never told me about. I'd like to know why."

Hermione wavered for a moment, hesitating, then said, "All right. I didn't want you to know. I was afraid you'd be worried. That's all."

"That is _not_ all," her mother said sharply. "We treat you as a responsible adult, Hermione, and that means you're also supposed to act as one. Hiding away threats from your own parents is _not_ an act of responsibility—is it a crime for us to be worried, or for us to know something? _What is happening_?"

Hermione winced again. When Elena Granger's voice was like that, all clarity and emphasis and a drive for knowledge, there was no way she could lie her way out of it. Her mother, at these times, was like a niffler, digging deep into the earth to find what she sought, and, if deflected in some way, struck for the lode of gold at a different angle—and never, _ever_ gave up on trying to get there.

_This is going to be a very long day_.

**oOo**

Narcissa Malfoy was on edge.

Draco knew it. His mother had been glancing at the clock every other minute, and there was a look in her blue eyes that was half-expectant, half-fearful. She'd been that since he had come home, and although at first he thought she was going to talk to him about his task at Hogwarts, it seemed there were too many other things on her mind.

He had an inkling as to why. There were only two sitting at the table, when there were three people who lived in the manor.

"Mother?" His voice cut into the silence that hovered over the dining table. "If I may ask, where is Aunt Bellatrix?"

She turned to him and smiled. Just a little. And there was doubt in the smile too. _No_, he thought. _Not doubt. Surely she doesn't doubt the Dark Lord_. "She had to do something for the Dark Lord," she said. "And get an early Christmas present for me and you. If everything goes right, your father will be out of Azkaban soon."

There was only the gleeful cry in his mind, a _Yes_!—and he nodded and tried hard not to laugh and throw his arms around his mother. "That would be nice," he said. "It would be a very good Christmas present."

**oOo**

It was Christmas Eve.

At the Burrow, Ron Weasley yawned and slumped in his chair, pointedly not watching Bill and Fleur, who were snuggling close together. Fred and George played Exploding Snap nearby, and Ginny was playing with her Pygmy Puff. His mother looked cheerful, with no signs of the tears she had cried the day before when Percy, in reply to her hopeful owl asking him to come home for Christmas, had scribbled in neat handwriting on a scrap of parchment, _No thank you_.

At 8 Sparta Court in London, Hermione Granger watched and clapped, grinning, as her father brought out the Christmas pudding, decked with a sprig of holly and flamed with brandy. She carefully pushed away thoughts about the events in the wizarding world, even as she glanced over at her mother, who glanced back. They had reached a compromise, although she wasn't looking forward to it; she'd managed to wrangle permission from the Order for her parents to go to Order headquarters at her mother's insistence ("_I want to see what they're doing to stop all this_," Elena Granger had said, and Hermione had reasoned to herself, _Well, it's under the Fidelius. Maybe they'll be satisfied by that_. Because when her father had got home, he'd sided with her mother and looked at Hermione with unhappy eyes). And, anyway, wasn't Christmas a time for happiness and celebration?

At Hogwarts, Severus Snape sat at the Head Table and nodded to the others in greeting. He felt apprehensive. He had got rid of the poisoned mead that Slughorn had, but doubtless something else would occur to worsen the situation in any case. He could not help but frown, Hogwarts whispering reassurances in his mind—_don't be pessimistic_, she said, _don't worry_, but he did, all the same—and his thoughts flew to—

—Azkaban, where Nymphadora Tonks was on guard duty with the other Aurors from Section A and B. They had all met at the center of Azkaban, switching guard positions from time to time, sharing stories and laughter and jokes, as though to ward off the depression that still lingered in the prison, the mark of the Dementors. When the next shift came, Tonks said, "I'll take it," and leisurely jogged off, listening to Fitzwilliam McKay tell an anecdote about his grandmother's Christmas cake. She paused to make sure all the brooms she'd borrowed from Dumbledore were where they were supposed to be, then continued on.

And outside the prison, outside the wards, on the far shore, Bellatrix Lestrange straightened up from where she'd been conferring with the other Death Eaters and waiting for nearly an hour, and walked over to a lone, cloaked figure. The solitary Death Eater was kneeling on the ground and had his wand out, muttering to himself every now and then. He paused, then spoke something Bellatrix found incomprehensible, and a square of air in front of him flared with gold and silver light, tracing out the runes that held the wards of Azkaban, before fading back into the night.

"Is it done?" she said edgily.

Francis de Rozier turned his face towards her, grey eyes set in an implacable face. "Yes, it is, Madame Lestrange," he said. "The wards have been altered according to plan. Shall we start?"

Bellatrix's face seemed to transform, from wasted paleness to a fiery delight. "Of course," she said, and made a gesture to the others. One by one, they simply stepped through the wards—the wards that otherwise might have kept those marked by the Dark Lord out, but with Rozier's expert tampering, would keep any other Ministry Aurors and fighters away instead. They might be notified, but they could not enter and aid those already inside; could only watch from the outside, unable to do anything. And she intended for none to leave alive, if she could help it. "And _I_ shall do the honours."

She raised her wand. "_Morsmordre_!"

And green streaked across the sky, unseen by those within Azkaban.

And in the parlour of 12 Grimmauld Place, many of the Order members gathered to converse and socialise, and Harry Potter laughed as he listened to Sirius and Lupin regale him with tales of their Hogwarts days. The pocket watch he wore around his neck was closed, so he could not have known that, even as he was laughing, one of the hands on the watch changed position, pointing to mortal peril.

**oOo**

"_Hark how the bells, sweet silver bells_..." is the "Carol of the Bells," a Christmas carol which one may hear quite a lot in holiday commercials. Snapdragons and Christmas puddings I learned about from Wikipedia. (Wikipedia, what a wonderful site.) 

Lily needs more attention in the HP books. (Girl power!) I hope JKR does that in Book 7. 

Originally I was going to make Draco Malfoy's section longer than it is, but then I decided to have Narcissa Malfoy's viewpoint after Azkaban (and frankly, also because I wanted to get the chapter out before school started after break and hit me like a ton of bricks again), so... uh, it's shorter. 

Question: The OotP movie trailer recently came out. What does everyone think of it? 

The next update will probably be around Christmas, which nicely coincides with Azkaban. Maybe, if I remind myself over and over again, I'll even manage to get that second part of FtS out, although now I'm beginning to doubt I can. 

Please make a RL-harried writer feel better and review. :) 

Talriga 


	24. Chapter 24

See Ch. 1 for disclaimer.

Oh dear. I am so sorry…

Haha, so you know how I previously said I'd try to stick to the chapter-a-month goal? … can we pretend I never said that? I now consider that made in a flush of optimism, only RL got in the way (again) and brought me down to earth: piano competitions, finals, gov school/summer program applications, 2 all-nighters for chemistry class, SAT IIs… would continue to complain, only I imagine people want to get to the chapter, especially considering the cliffie from Ch. 23. :P Thanks to my reviewers!

**Warning:** For violence and language. But hey, this _is_ an attack, and it is Azkaban, and it involves Death Eaters… of course. But without further ado:

**Chapter 24**

"I personally don't think Celestina Warbeck's a good singer," someone said further down the corridor.

"What are you talking about? I think she's great!"

"You would, although I bet it's more for her physical attributes."

"Hey!"

Tonks turned the corner and saw the two Aurors who were standing guard. "Wotcher, Jacqueline, Beckett!" she said cheerfully, concealing her own worries behind a smile and a wink. "I don't much like Warbeck either."

"That's two against one," Jacqueline Asterbury said, facing Beckett Sumner. "Majority rules—she's too sappy for me."

"Two against zero, now," Beckett said, edging away. "You're taking my place, Tonks—right? Thank god—" and he muttered under his breath, but Tonks and Jacqueline heard it all the same, "—Jackie's a right terror when it comes to arguing. Bye!" And he fled down the corridor, the shout of "Not Jackie, _Jacqueline_!" following close on his heels. Looking somewhat exasperated, the other Auror turned back and smiled at her. "Happy Christmas, Tonks. How's the little party going?"

"If by party you mean telling stories about food in a dark, drippy place where there isn't any food, then it's going wonderfully well," Tonks replied wryly. "Absolutely fantastic, in fact. The perfect place for a Christmas party."

"Indeed," Jacqueline said. She leaned a little to the side, peering into the small room off the side of the corridor where the surveillance mirror was, and commented, "Nothing much happening in the cells, if you want to know."

Tonks looked in as well; the 1956 Burleigh mirror the Aurors had nicknamed Big Brother Azzy had been moved close to the door, so its surface could easily be seen from the doorway. "Azzy disagrees," she pointed out. "Look, there's Lucius Malfoy trying to comb his hair. Right there. That's something happening. You think maybe we'd be allowed to make his hair grow more quickly?"

"So he'd throw a hissy fit about his dirty hair? As if he isn't right now." Jacqueline watched, a look of mild distaste in her eyes. "That would be incredibly entertaining, but—" she puffed out her cheeks and tried to look as stupid as possible, "as Warden Roth says, 'I need to approve everything that happens here!'"

Tonks grinned and nodded and went on doing so. She jammed her hands into her robes, her fingers curling around her wand. "Now, now, there's no need to make fun of him, Jacqueline—you know he only means the best."

"To protect his sorry self, you mean," Jacqueline retorted. "Whiner."

"Definitely." Tonks yawned theatrically. "Wonder what we're ever going to do with the prisoners, anyway."

"What do you mean?" Jacqueline's voice was curious.

_They'll attack sooner or later_, Tonks told herself. _So you might as well build a good mental foundation. With the suggestion of a possible attack, Jacqueline'll be more on guard_.

"Well," she said, gesturing towards the Burleigh, "I mean, after the war's over—" _And it will be over_, she thought, _it _will _be over_, "—we probably actually ought to be put them on trial, or something like that. Unless the Death Eaters are trying to break them out, but it doesn't seem like that's happening anytime soon." _Depending on your definition of soon_, she added silently in her mind.

Jacqueline had had a rather merry look on her face before, but now her smile dropped. "Yeah," she said. "They were too busy torturing others to bother with their own. Very good of them."

Tonks remembered, suddenly, that Zilla Arwood, tortured and dead, just as the other victims of Death Eaters were usually dead, had been a friend of Jacqueline—Ravenclaw Housemates, in fact. And the attack had the mark of Bellatrix Lestrange all over it. The Auror investigation hadn't said so, but Tonks had recognized it anyway, she was sure. She didn't like to be called a Black, but she'd spent enough time studying the Black files and visiting the Black house that she had an idea of what her ancestors were like. What with all that she'd found, she always wondered if she were "besmirching the name of Black," as Walburga Black always screeched, or if it had always been the other way around. The name of Black had already been besmirched enough by others before her, the fanatic Muggle-haters and criminals and corrupt family heads. _This_, she thought, _is the Black legacy. Who's ever going to have the chance to change it_?

She wrenched herself away from her thoughts, and carried on. "But you have to say it's awfully suspicious," she pointed out. "Because—I mean, the sad thing is that You-Know-Who isn't _stupid_. He's got some of his followers locked up, and you'd think he'd want them out."

"Maybe he is that stupid," Jacqueline suggested. "Only in my dreams, though. Mad megalomaniac, he is. Barking."

"I wish I didn't have to come here," Tonks said. More misdirection was always helpful. "Could've been home with my parents, or something… I don't like this. Why'd the Ministry have to stick the bloody Death Eaters in Azkaban? I mean, it's the one place you'd expect them to be. They've got to have other prisons _somewhere_."

"There's Jaiole," Jacqueline said unexpectedly. "But Azkaban has the greater reputation, and if the papers say they've been put in Azkaban, so much the better for the Ministry."

"And who guarded Azkaban?" Tonks muttered. "The Dementors—and even then, there were two escapes anyway. It's stupid, I swear to Merlin—"

"_Code Omega! Code Omega_!"

Both Tonks and Jacqueline whirled around in surprise. The stone slab upon the wooden pedestal was glowing. Tonks hurried over, and she felt as though her heart were rising up into her throat, as though she could not breathe. _Code Omega_, she thought numbly. _Omega, for the end_. The communication was used only for alerts and warnings.

"Code Omega!" The speaker's voice held undeniable fear, yet stayed loud and clear with admirable steadiness. "Section Low L, Dark Mark, report!"

"Section High A, report received," Tonks snapped tersely. "How many?"

"Estimation here, around thirty Death Eaters," came the reply. "Reinforcements?"

"Shall send," said Tonks. _Only thirty. There's more of us… Maybe we _could _fight them and win_…

But Snape's words came to her mind. "_Your main task is to get as many Aurors out of Azkaban as possible, alive… The building is of no use; the people within are important. The Death Eaters must be killed. The Aurors must get out of there alive_."

And then Azkaban _shuddered_. Tonks could feel shockwaves of some far explosion travelling through the stone, through the ground, twisting around her. "What's happened?" she asked the wardstone, but a vague realisation dawned on her that Section Low L might already be gone. "Jacqueline," she said. "Look it up on Azzy!"

"_Seon elles hwaer, Azkaban prison Section L cells_!" Jacqueline shouted. "Tonks—"

Tonks jerked away from the wardstone to look at Azzy. A large section of Section L had been blown away, leaving a vulnerable row of cells. The suddenness of the attack had taken most of the Aurors by surprise; the last ones standing plainly realised that they couldn't do well in such a situation, and fled to Section K, quickly sealing the escape route. But Tonks noticed a whirl of black hair and grey eyes and a cruel face—Bellatrix Lestrange. She didn't think the block would last very long.

The two of them exchanged glances, and then they were dashing down the corridor, dashing to the center of Azkaban, and Tonks and Jacqueline yelled together, their voice flying further than they could run, "Code Omega! Death Eater attack!"

**oOo**

Bellatrix laughed.

This, this was what she had wanted and wished for a long time, to be able to return to the prison that had held her for years and kept her from her Lord. And destroy it. Yes, this was fun.

Off to her side, Rozier cast one last spell that shattered the barrier, and they went through. Bella lunged forward at an approaching Auror. "_Cytan_!" she sighed lovingly, and the Auror twisted and fell with her next "_Stupefy_!" _When will you all learn_, she thought, _that there's no point in trying to stop us_? It was a pity that she could not kill them, but the Dark Lord had ordered the Aurors to be captured. "_For other purposes_," he'd said, and smiled slowly.

There was a group of Aurors up ahead, three of them standing side by side. _Pathetic. Three against us all_? Then there came the sound of more coming from the other end of the corridor. "Split," she said, nodding that way. "Purge these corridors of those Aurors. Meet at the center, where the others are."

Half of them whirled away upon her command, while she darted toward the lone Aurors who stood at the door, the door that led to the central corridor, the corridor that led to the captured Death Eaters. "_Stupefy_!" the three cried together, but Bella batted the red jets of light away with a "_Scield_!" and watched as the three-turned-six curses flew back toward them.

They had the presence of mind to duck out of the way. One of them rolled to the side and snapped, "_Conjunctivito_!"

Bella bent away from the curse and threw an arm-twisting curse at him. The Auror cried out as his arm twisted backward with the audible snapping of bone. She saw the quick, single spurt of blood, the muscles tearing, and the jagged bone coming into sight.

The Dark Lord had wanted them alive, but he certainly hadn't said anything about them unharmed.

But—"_Relashio_!" and she turned her head to see the fiery sparks flying towards her—then—_Merlin_, they struck across her arms and stung with a burning sensation. And was the damn Auror _smirking_?

She hissed and narrowed her eyes. She could hate—yes, she could hate. "_Crucio_!"

Screaming, and she smiled.

**oOo**

Henry Wyatt heard the shouts of alarm even before Tonks and Asterbury rounded the corner, and so had the others. They all leapt to their feet. "What is it?" he and Section B leader Cyril Ravenhurst both said at once, but really, he thought, there was no point in asking. Not when it was Code Omega. Bloody Code Omega, damn it.

"Section Low L," Tonks said, leaning slightly against the wall and trying to catch her breath. "An explosion to break up the walls there, they asked for reinforcements—but I don't know how much longer the Aurors there can keep it up. Thirty Death Eaters he said, right?" This was addressed to Asterbury, who nodded and gripped her wand tight, blue eyes wide and wary and watchful.

_Nice Christmas here_, Henry thought bitterly. "All right," he said. "Reinforcements, yes. Who'll go?"

"But—" Tonks began, then fell silent.

Henry whirled around to face her. "Yes? Speak up, Tonks!"

"I—I don't see the point," she said hesitantly, watching the others as though they might yell at her for saying so. "Because, well—the prison, they've already destroyed part of the prison, and we know they're after the Death Eaters here—"

Someone shifted next to Henry, and Dagny Morgenstern's calm, implacable voice came out of the shadows. "Yes, I see. The prison's as good as destroyed, the wards have been breached, and the Death Eaters are here—they'll come here and fight us, and if we're lucky we'll win, and lose some, and if we're unlucky we'll lose, and all be dead or captured."

Cyril straightened slightly and looked at Morgenstern. "You mean…"

"I mean that we get rid of the Death Eaters, and get the hell out of here," Morgenstern said, still with that terrible, calm voice of hers.

"But we can't just desert!" Fitzwilliam McKay there, his eyes spitting with fury.

"It isn't desertion," Morgenstern said curtly. "Only common sense."

And yes, Henry had to admit, it made sense. Azkaban was useless, in a way, and they knew most of those incarcerated here were Death Eaters. Still… he shook his head. "But we can't leave the others," he said. _Can we be so callous as to do such a thing_? He turned towards Cyril and looked steadily at him, asking an unspoken question. But he knew Cyril well enough; Cyril nodded. _Yes_. Henry looked back at the other Aurors. "Auror Ravenhurst and I will go get the others," he said. "We'll tell them all to head for the center of Azkaban and meet you all here—"

"Anti-Apparation wards are up," Asterbury said then. She raised her wand, at the point of which was a small ball of light; it danced around a little, casting amorphous shadows onto her face. "What about Portkeys?"

"_Portus_," another Auror said, and then a muttered curse. "It didn't work either."

"I saw brooms," Tonks cut in, her voice trembling a little. "Broomsticks, we could use those…"

"Good enough," Henry told her. "Get those together."

Cyril said, "Garner, you take over while I'm gone." Richard Garner made a slight nod.

Henry nodded and turned to Morgenstern. "You're in charge, Morgenstern," he said. "Get the Death Eaters and get out of here, but stay for a moment because more Aurors will be coming." _I'm wasting time right now_, he realised. "I'm going."

Morgenstern regarded him inscrutably, then held out her hand. "I will see you soon then, Wyatt," she said. "We don't want more Aurors dead."

Henry grasped her hand and shook it firmly. "Merlin with you too, Morgenstern."

Then he was turning on his heel, Cyril next to him, and he was thinking of his parents, together and dead and _the Death Eaters did that to them_, and he held his wand tensely. It seemed a timeless period had passed, although they had passed through several levels of Azkaban, and now—

"_Reducto_!" and Cyril screamed, "_Protego_!"

Henry dodged a curse that flew over his head and snapped out, quick and deadly, "_Fyrippen_!" The fire whip shot out from his wand and struck at a Death Eater, who recoiled back and fell.

The other Aurors noticed they were here, too, because they all started fighting their way towards them. _Strength in numbers, yes_, Henry thought. _Keep our backs covered_.

Adrian Laurelton was hit with a curse before he had made it, but the others gathered around him and Cyril and began moving backwards, blocking the corridor so that the Death Eaters couldn't get through, in a circle facing outwards.

"_Stupefy_!"

"_Flagrate_!"

"_Impedimenta_!"

—and there and there and there—

He veered sharply to the side as a curse flew past him and struck the wall. "_Fyrippen_!" he thought, and the now nonverbal spell flashed out again in another fiery attack. Behind him, Cyril raised another shield to block a vicious cutting spell.

A murmur under his breath, and there!—a Death Eater was changed into a little green frog. Henry had always been good at Transfiguration. He then crushed the little green frog with a piece of rubble from the destroyed section of the walls, and tried not to think about what the Death Eater was thinking as he was crushed to death. _They didn't care about my parents, why should I care about them_?

"Go, go, go!" Henry snapped to the other Aurors, keeping his voice low so the Death Eaters couldn't hear him. "To the center, the others are waiting for you!" He made a quick back-step and nodded almost imperceptibly to Cyril, and they shouted in unison, "_Arisan vallum_!"

A huge block of stone, with a groan and a creak, forced itself up from the floor from wall to wall, momentarily blocking the Death Eaters' curses. "_Protego_!" they both said again, protecting it from destruction by a stray _Reducto_. He jerked his head at the others.

"We can't just leave!" one of them said, stubbornness lacing his voice. "You two—"

"I'll have _you_ up for insubordination!" roared Henry. "_Go_! We'll be behind you!"

He glared at them; the Aurors hesitated before they began moving as a group, dashing down the corridor. "Finally," he muttered.

"This is going to be dicey," Cyril said next to him, breathing heavily. "If we get—a series of walls up—all the way down the corridor—"

Henry nodded. "That'll work," he said, and—just in case—pulled Cyril back and invoked another _Arisan vallum_, securing it with _Protego_. "You all right, Cyril?"

"As fine as I can be," Cyril said. Henry shot a quick glance at him; Cyril was bleeding just a little at his right temple, and when he pressed his hand against his head, he winced a little. "You go too, Cyril," he said.

Cyril frowned. "Henry, I don't think that's a good idea—"

The wall in front of them shook, just a little. _They must've broken through the first one then_, thought Henry. His mind was curiously calm.

_Your first duty is to the Aurors_, Gawain Robards had said, when Henry had been assigned to Azkaban and Robards called him to his office. _Always to the Aurors and your colleagues_. Standing there with that perpetually tired look on his face, all lined with worry and exhaustion.

Cyril and Henry had been fellow Hufflepuffs. Henry glanced again at Cyril, who was still testing his head and wincing to himself. Cyril wasn't in a good enough fighting condition, he saw.

Well. He'd always been good at Transfiguration. Human Transfiguration wasn't too hard for him. "Sorry, Cyril," he said, almost too casually, and turned his wand upon his friend.

_Pop_!

Where Cyril had been, a mouse stared up at him with a look of anger and indignation.

The wall was trembling now. "You couldn't have made it back quickly enough," he said. "Here—" a quick, small _Reducto_ and a little hole was made where the wall met the floor "—you stay there, they won't find you. After I get away and they leave, I'll come back, all right? Can't take you with me if I'm fighting, you'll get hurt if you get hit by some stray spell."

If Cyril had still been in human form, he'd be protesting loudly, but as a mouse, he couldn't do much. The little mouse rubbed at its head with its paws, made a sniff of disdain, as if to say, "You idiot," and darted into the hole.

The wall shuddered and crumbled as Henry turned and ran. _Arisan vallum. Arisan vallum. Arisan vallum_. He didn't dare look back to see if his spells were working, that would take too much time—he twisted around the corner, dodging another _Stupefy_, and ran.

He ran so quickly that he didn't see another group of Death Eaters heading towards him from the side until it was nearly too late—

"_Conjunctivito_!" Taken by surprise, he narrowly avoided the spell, throwing himself against the wall to get out of the way. He quickly darted across the corridor into the next level before the Death Eaters could get to him, and—_oh, damn it_! He was under too much fire.

"_Protego_!" he snapped. "_Stupefy_!" He had to turn around and parry off the blows now, no more running. _Can I make it_? he thought to himself. Then he saw Bellatrix Lestrange, and his mind went hot with fury.

"_Reducto_!" _Yes, blow her to smithereens_! But she quickly side-stepped and shot back a curse which he didn't recognise. More of that illicit magic she'd learned, no doubt.

The corridor was dark, lit by only the furiously criss-crossing streams of lights. Henry bent down as more curses in quick succession came at him—no, she'd calculated it so that he'd be hit even if he ducked—"_Protego_!" And her two cutting curses stopped and flickered out against his shield. He breathed a sight of relief, but—

"_Flipendo Maximus_!" one of the Death Eaters yelled then, lunging at him out of nowhere, and he'd already cast _Protego_ against Bellatrix Lestrange's curse, it wouldn't last—

The spell shattered the magical shield and caught Henry across his torso, and he was thrown up and backwards—_crack_ went his head against the stone wall, and _snap_ twisted his shoulder, and _pain_.

Then the darkness of oblivion came for him, a wave of black.

**oOo**

_Pour la famille_, Francis thought to himself. _For the family_.

He bent over the collapsed Auror. Still breathing, so he bound him with ropes and left him there; then he looked up at Madame Lestrange. Everything seemed oddly picture-like, as though it was _click_ one picture and _click_ another, and there was no transition in between: so he remembered the Auror fighting and the Auror fallen, and there was no picture to show how that'd changed. Perhaps it was better that way, he decided. It was odd to think that it'd been because of him and that nice _Flipendo Maximus_. You wouldn't expect some stuffy little academic like himself to be fighting here.

_What a sabbatical to have_, he thought sourly. His colleague Jacques Reynaud would be laughing at him now. "_And how did you get into such a mess_?"

"_Ah, Jacques_," he'd say in reply, "_but how could you expect me to be coerced into this kind of thing_?" No, he couldn't have expected, but then again he wasn't a Rozier.

He didn't expect too much excitement on a sabbatical, just some nice travelling, a break from his teaching duties at the Gautier Institute. Hadn't expected to be knocked out and wake up with a rather batty-looking wizard, if he might say so himself, telling him to work for him, or else—

Yes, he was Rozier. He did this for the family. He did wonder, though, what they might be thinking. They'd probably be irritated with him for missing their joint Rozier-Dufay Christmas celebration, sadly. They had the most wonderful food. And the Institute would be quite angry about how he'd fallen out of contact with them. Maybe they thought he was already dead, somehow? And perhaps that was for the best—he didn't want his status as Death Eater known, the Ministry would go after the family, no holds barred.

"Rozier! _Rozier_!"

Francis looked up and frowned. "Madame Lestrange?"

She waved a hand in the direction of the unconscious Aurors they'd captured. "Confine them, if you will."

He nodded then, carefully blank grey eyes in his thin, handsome face, and suppressed the urge to smile. Any chance to make use of his skill with runes was welcome; the rest, to him, was all rather distasteful.

Runes was a slow subject; it wasn't ideal for duelling, or anything fast-paced like that. But it was the master of wards, and the master of ward-breaking; the Dark Lord had wanted him for that purpose. He half-wished he could be back in France, with Jacques and Heloise and the others at the Institute, but the Dark Lord had him, and if he ran away—well, the Dark Lord might be a little mad, but he certainly wasn't stupid. The Roziers and Dufays were prime targets; the Death Eaters had spoken of blood purity and preserving the wizarding world, but Francis wasn't stupid either, he sensed the implied meaning in their words: _Join, or you and your relatives are going to suffer the consequences_. So he'd agreed to join, in a very nice, acquiescent, sheep-like sort of way, as though he'd meant to all along, and kept his head low. Look serious, look dedicated, look unobtrusive, and for Merlin's sake, don't let them figure out what you're thinking! He thanked Heloise, wise old Heloise Mauperin, for dragging him and Jacques into looking at Occlumency. And he had thought it was a waste of time, too.

He'd managed, so far. He wasn't stupid.

He let the other Death Eaters file past him and watched as they swept down the corridors toward the high-security level of Azkaban where all the incarcerated Death Eaters were. Then he walked back and gathered all the unconscious Aurors. _One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six_. There would probably be more undoubtedly, although he did wonder why they'd all fled to the center of Azkaban. Or was there some escape route he and the Death Eaters didn't know about? He knew his wards had sealed off any way to escape by Portkey or Apparation, and he trusted his wards as he did no-one else's.

As Francis surveyed the Aurors, he thought he heard a little scratching noise behind him. He whirled around quickly, and for a moment he could've sworn that there really was something—some noise—but odd, nothing anymore. A fancy, probably, a fancy of his. He imagined too many things nowadays: adorable little Amélie, his six-year-old niece, and his brother Jean-Yves talking politics with that passion of his. And the Dufays as well, Calanthe and Valentine both exclaiming over the newest fashions, Maximilien with his polished appearance and ready grin.

"_Mon dieu_," he sighed to himself. _Oh well… there's nothing to be done but stay away from attention, that's all_.

Behind his back, a mouse scurried over. Taking in the tableau before it, it made a nearly inaudible, irritated squeak, as though it wanted to do something it couldn't, then silently darted into the robe pocket of one of the unconscious Aurors.

Francis idly began to trace patterns on the wall, the point of his wand scratching out the patterns of a quick, strong confinement ward. He worked quickly and silently, and waited for the others to return with the rest of the fallen.

**oOo**

"Wow, it's a stroke of luck that the brooms were here," Asterbury said as she hefted a broomstick in one hand. "Sort of old and worn, but they'll do. Lucky."

Dagny Morgenstern said, "Two or three to a broom would work, I believe."

"Yeah, I think it would." Tonks was still staring down the corridor, tense and wary.

Dagny narrowed her eyes, just a little. Tonks was far too jumpy; and odd, too, how she'd known exactly where the brooms were, and that they should be so strategically placed. She did not think broom-keeping was a common Azkaban custom; she wasn't complaining, though. She remembered that the young Auror had been in that Department of Mysteries fracas, with Dumbledore there as well… and if Dumbledore had a way of gaining information, she didn't care, so long as it helped.

"Sumner, you go to the center and direct the Aurors as they come here," she said. "Everyone else, stay in Section A—unless you want to come with me to Section B to take care of the prisoners there." She glanced at Garner, who said, "If you wish, Morgenstern." He looked upward. "Best to blast a hole in the ceiling in a moment," he commented. "Sereny, look up the outside in Big Brother Azzy, will you?..."

His voice faded as Dagny walked away. She went down the corridor, nodding to Sumner as he stood there, face serious and hard—then up to the entrance of Section B, the recognition device flashing, and she strode in.

The prisoners were wide awake. The loud crashes and pandemonium had alerted them all, and now most of them stood in their cells, faces up against the bars as though to see what was happening. One of them—Rabastan Lestrange, she saw—gave her a scornful look and opened his mouth to say something. His lips moved, but she didn't hear him; the wards blocked sound emanating from the inside to the outside of the cells—and thus preventing the possibility of taunts that might goad the Auror guards into imprudent actions. She could still guess what he was saying. _They're here. Why aren't you running, you pitiful little thing_?

She raised her wand and thought, "_Avada Kedavra_." But the green light did not appear—only a very faint flicker at the point of her wand.

So she couldn't cast it, then. It didn't surprise her, really; she knew too much of the imprisoned Death Eaters from her time at Hogwarts to truly hate them—more to pity them for being so foolish. But no time to think of that. She couldn't use the Killing Curse, but there were other ways of dying.

She said the spells aloud. "_Stupefy. Suffauc_." The latter, to deprive the Death Eaters of their breath and slowly kill them; the former, because she felt that she could allow them that much mercy, to die without being conscious of the slow, vise-like grip around their throats as they drew their last breaths.

Rabastan Lestrange crumpled to the floor.

Dagny said the two spells over again and again. _Stupefy. Suffauc. Stupefy. Suffauc. Stupefy. Suffauc_…

A shuffle behind her; Dagny turned. Nymphadora Tonks stood there, looking uneasy. She was looking at Dagny's wand. "We're really—killing them, then?" she asked. She sounded as if she'd known all along, only that she hadn't wanted to—that she had wanted a superior to confirm that this, yes, _this_ was what would happen.

"Yes," said Dagny, and bit back the impulse to remind Tonks that the prisoners were now dead in their cells, if she hadn't noticed yet. Her voice was grim; she imagined that her face must look that way, too, but when had it not?

Tonks had had her wand drawn, but held it loosely, as though she were loath to cast spells. And perhaps she was. "All right," she said. "But honestly—those too?" She jerked her head at the farthest cells.

Dagny glanced over, then walked to the cells and removed the sound wards with a flick of her wand. "Shunpike," she said.

Stan Shunpike looked up. There was a frightened look on his face. _The silly boy_, Dagny thought as she observed him. _The poor idiot_. "There's an attack," she said bluntly. "I've killed the prisoners so the Death Eaters don't get them—but if _you're_ a Death Eater, Scrimgeour's a bloody barnacle and I'm Sirius Black. I'm holing you up until this blows over, Shunpike. Got that?"

"Yes'm," Shunpike said, eyes wide. At the mention of Death Eaters, he'd gone very pale. "As you say, ma'am." He stumbled back and looked at Dagny, who made a wide, sweeping motion with her wand—and the bars faded into a suddenly created wall.

Dagny turned to see Tonks looking at her. The Metamorphmagus was smiling just a little. "So I'm not the only one who thinks Shunpike was just boasting, then," she said.

"No," Dagny replied. "You weren't." She started away, not looking at the death she had delivered. There was no time for that now. Time later.

She came out of Section B as Sumner rushed by with a group of battered Aurors. "Morgenstern, these are the last ones!" Sumner shouted to her. "They say Aurors Wyatt and Ravenhurst will be here soon!"

"Come on, Tonks," Dagny said sharply, and ran.

They burst into Section A behind the exhausted Aurors from the other security levels, and Dagny saw that Garner had organized well; most of the Aurors had already mounted brooms, and she noticed a hole blasted in the ceiling. As the Aurors swung onto the brooms, the rider at the front bent low, close to the shaft of the broom, and with a faint _swoosh_ sailed off into the night sky.

"Auror Morgenstern!" Garner there, holding out a hand. "Get on, won't you?"

Dagny paused. "No, just a little longer," she said. "Just two more coming." _Two more leading Aurors, that's all, it shouldn't be too long before they're here_…

Garner stared at her for a moment longer, then sighed. "Careful, Morgenstern," he said. "There's one last broom there, take it." He jerked his head at the broom lying nearby, then turned and said, "Sumner, get on with Sereny. Tonks, Morgenstern, you're the last."

Tonks hurried over and picked up the broom. "We could manage four, I think," she said. "Go ahead, sir, we'll be behind you, don't worry."

Garner said, "You two leave as quickly as you can, all right? See you on the other side." He kicked off as well, Beckett Sumner and June Sereny behind him.

Dagny looked around at the prisoners in Section A. They were all dead as well; their bodies didn't show any signs of physical harm, so she supposed the Killing Curse had been used. Who would've done that? Most likely Fitzwilliam McKay, she decided. He'd been quietly bottling his anger up for ages. And Wyatt and Ravenhurst had authorised them to do so, too. He wouldn't suffer any huge bureaucratic backlash.

_Where _is_ Wyatt? And Ravenhurst_?

She saw the body of Lucius Malfoy, and averted her eyes. There'd always been that faint sense of injustice she'd had around him; she still remembered the snake in her bed, and who had arranged for it. Still, he'd had a wife, a son—Draco, yes, his name was Draco—and yet…

Dagny wondered, sometimes, about the reason Malfoy had been willing to take such an action. Such a trifling little thing… surely he hadn't really bothered with a second-year, then? Only to him, she had committed the greatest sin of all in Malfoy's eyes—not hate, because hate he could deal with—but indifference.

Tonks said, a faint note of worry in her voice, "When are they coming?"

It was what Dagny wondered as well. She walked over to Tonks and motioned for her to get on. "Just in case," she said aloud. Suspicion nagged at her. Perhaps they hadn't made it? A little voice of alarm in her head was crying, _Just go! Go! They're probably dead_!

_Wait just a little longer_, she thought. _One more minute_—

She heard voices then, people running. _Death Eaters_? Or maybe Wyatt and Ravenhurst were back…

Then the door burst open, and she saw a whirl of black robes, heard a scream of anger. _No. Death Eaters_.

Dagny raised a shield and swung onto the broomstick, and Tonks pushed away from the ground, but—

"_Expelliarmus_!"

Too late, too late—_too late_, said her heartbeat, _too late_—for another _Protego_—

—it struck Dagny in the chest as she turned a little in her seat, and she lost her balance, slipping off the broomstick. Tonks yelled something incomprehensible and stretched out her hand to grasp Dagny's, but _too late_—

A shudder went through Dagny as she struck the ground, a sharp pain in her side. She instinctively rolled to the side so as not to be a still target, a _Stupefy_ struck the floor next to her—looked up and saw Tonks still there, ducking spells and being driven further and further away, up into the sky, but still—Tonks looked down, a split second's hesitation on her face, as though she still hoped to rescue Dagny—_too late for me_, thought Dagny grimly—

"_Go_!" she screamed. "_Now_!"

She scrambled to her feet in the next second, ignoring the ache in her side. "_Stupefy! Stupefy! Stupefy_!" A boring spell, but a short incantation, and one she could say over and over again. And _yes_!—one down, there, but there were _so damn many_—

The pain in her side nearly made her double over, wincing, and the brief lack of concentration was all that the Death Eaters needed. "_Accio wand_!" cried one of them, and her wand was plucked away. She dodged another spell, cursing to herself.

A trump card, though. She had her daggers, hidden so carefully, and the Death Eaters scorned Muggles, wouldn't know about the daggers, but if only that stupid pain would leave—

Another curse took the decision away from her. Too many seconds without her wand and too many spells aimed at her. "_Attaqeorte_!"

Dagny felt as though her breath had been suddenly stopped, as though the strength had died in her body—a tightness in her chest, a dizzying sensation in her head—she could not summon the strength to move.

One of the Death Eaters leaned down over her. It was Bellatrix Lestrange. She was saying something to others, berating them for something—their failure? Letting Tonks escape?—did it matter? _Dagny, you damn fool_, she thought to herself dazedly. _Why be so slow_?

The world seemed to grow grey with every strangled breath she took, the colours slowly fading… a murmur—_the Dark Lord wants them alive_—a sudden relief in her chest… _Stupefy_, she heard as if it came from a far distance, and then there was nothing to hear or see anymore.

**oOo**

"_Go! Now_!"

Tonks didn't dare take another look at Auror Morgenstern, sprawled as she was on the floor; she wheeled round and shot out into the air, into the darkness. She tried not to think of Morgenstern, of Wyatt, of Ravenhurst… they were all there, still in Azkaban, and she had _known_ about the attack, and yet she hadn't managed to get them out. The sting of self-reproach struck at her; she felt the taste of bitter failure on her tongue. If only she'd left with Morgenstern earlier… if only Wyatt and Ravenhurst had stayed… too much of _if only_…

"Tonks!" She'd been flying so fast that now she already saw the face of Garner in the night sky, peering worriedly at her. "Where are the others?"

"Aurors Wyatt and Ravenhurst didn't make it back," she said, the ugliness of the words pricking at her. "And we were going to leave, but Morgenstern was hit and fell off."

Garner went quiet. Nearby, Tonks could see Beckett and June Sereny. Beckett looked stunned; June Sereny bowed her head and closed her eyes. "Well," Garner said finally. "Don't worry, Tonks. We'll deal with everything as it comes."

_And what if we don't deal well enough with it_? Tonks wanted to ask. But in front of her eyes she could only see the figure of Morgenstern, slumped upon the ground and screaming, "_Go! Now_!"

"Don't think it's your fault, Tonks," Beckett said almost gently.

Tonks didn't answer. She stared straight ahead and flew. The bitter winter wind blew harshly against her, drying her cheeks so that there were no traces of tears left on her face.

**oOo**

"Big Brother Azzy"—thus, in a way, "Big Brother Azkaban." See the allusion to George Orwell's _1984_? ;)

"Jaiole" is from Old French for "jail."

I used "Conjunctivito" as the incantation for the Conjunctivitis Curse, although I don't think it's stated explicitly in the HP books. "Fyrippen" is Old English "fyr" (fire) and Middle Low German "wippen" (whip) put together; "Arisan vallum" is Old English for "arise" and Latin for "wall." The spell "Attaqeorte" is a mixture of French "attaquer" (attack) and Old English "heorte" (heart)—literally, "heart attack." (I must acknowledge my debt to Encarta Dictionary Tools… an extremely useful program, I have to say.)

"Mon dieu" is French for "my god."

"_The world seemed to grow grey with every strangled breath she took_…"—A very, very faint allusion to Algernon Charles Swinburne's poem "Hymn to Proserpine," in which he writes: "_Thou hast conquered, O pale Galilean; the world has grown grey from thy breath; / We have drunken of things Lethean, and fed on the fullness of death_." (It's a _beautiful_ poem that needs to be more well-known.)

I'm afraid I can't be too exact as to when the next update will be posted… it really does depend on how nice RL will be to me. :( Considering another looming piano competition, and Knowledge Masters tournaments (trivia competitions, basically), and the likelihood of another all-nighter for chem class (stares at chem lab), I will (still) optimistically say that hopefully Ch. 25 will be out by the end of February… Maybe. (crosses fingers)

Question: _Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows_. What do you think of the title for the seventh HP book?

On a different note: I've just recently found out _Wrath and Tears_ was nominated in the 2006-2007 OWL awards, in the category "Realm of the Half-Blood Prince" (Snape-centric stories). The link to the awards/nominated stories is in my profile. I encourage everyone to read all the nominees at OWL in every category and vote—and I appreciate every vote for this story. ;)

Finally: Jan. 31, 2007—it's the one-year anniversary of this story, and what a year it's been. :) Once again, I'm grateful to all my readers who have alternately critiqued, nitpicked, complimented, and reviewed _Wrath and Tears_—your encouragement and support have been wonderful.

Please review!

Talriga


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